RED
by Sherbet Mayhem
Summary: In a time where political decisions devastatingly affect the shape of their world, how will Sakura, Kakashi, Naruto and Sasuke endure the uncontrollable hardships thrust upon them? Discover RED; a dramatic exploration of history repeated. Wear a mask to hide yourself; let your past follow you like the shadow of your future; and cover your eyes. They determine the value of your life
1. Premonition

**RED**

**Prologue; Premonition**

Hatake Kakashi never wore a watch.

Time was one of those strange phenomena that he preferred not to keep track of; it brought with it too many responsibilities, too many missed meeting places and 'should haves'. His personal freedom would be impinged upon if Time started to keep tabs on him, or if _he_ started to keep tabs on It. Instead, the man without a watch let Time make all the moves, play all the cards – and, when it became an absolute necessity, Kakashi would respond. Like knives hurled toward one another in the air, only colliding for the briefest of seconds before springing away to the ground, Kakashi and Time kept their distance, always knowing they were speeding relentlessly at each other, waiting for that explosive moment when they would violently mesh together before hurtling apart again. Those moments were the ones he remembered – when Kakashi offered Time a brief explanation for his tardiness over the years and tried to explain why he hadn't done anything about anything until right now.

Right now, faced by a young, heavy-eyed boy at his front door with the exhausted words: 'Are you Kakashi?', the man without a watch could almost _see_ the shady form of Time hovering over the house. Like a vulture, Time craned its neck to wait for Kakashi's response. Time eyed the man standing at the door on shivering legs, clutching a small note in his bony hands. Time listened carefully to the breathing of both men, the cautious, nervous catch of one against the surprised, hesitant stun of the other. Time waited for the young boy to be turned away, infamous eyes dull in the night, so he could swoop down and arrange a meeting. Discuss his mistakes and inform him frankly that his time was up. Let him go.

'Yes,' came the reply, eventually, after a long lock of stares. 'Yes, I'm Kakashi.'

'Do you have the time?' It came instantly, almost as though it had been practised. 'Can you tell me the time?'

The vulture on the roof watched Kakashi glance down the quiet street, illuminated by darkness, scanning this way and that for any sign of life. None. The boy's shadow hadn't even followed him here; he waited (im)patiently, right hand wrapped around a slender, battered suitcase. The left clutched the note.

He waited.

Time waited, preparing his muscles for a swoop.

'Of course I can,' Kakashi finally whispered.

He stepped aside in the doorway, silently gesturing for the smaller boy to enter the house. Tension still thick in his shoulders, the boy moved, eyes locked straight ahead, without looking back into the street. Once he was inside, Kakashi glanced upward at the Time vulture hovering overhead, met its gaze, and nodded.

He didn't need to be told that his time to act had, at long last, arrived. Two knives of history locked themselves together with a glint.

Click. The door closed.

* * *

Of course, we all know that the young man shivering in the doorway isn't interested in the time. Time has done nothing to help him. Time has taken the dear things away and left him with nothing but the almost empty suitcase in one hand and the scribbled note in the other.

We all know, in our secret mind, that really, the words uttered by the boy are code, are a disguise, cloaked by the dark night but given away by the shake of the knees and the rolled up tightness of the shoulders. The part of us not allowed to speak out hears the young man's plea; the desperate begging of the illegal words; the almost inaudible tremor in his voice.

'Can you tell me the time?'

It's painstakingly clear to all of us watching that the boy is begging for his life. The boy is speaking secret words.

The boy is asking: _'Will you still help me?'_

_

* * *

_

_**Author's note:** Welcome to the newest joint endeavour of myself, Sherbet Mayhem, and fellow Narutard Oil Pastel. This story is based loosely around the plot of Marcus Zusak's 'The Book Thief', although my writing does not do such an incredible author any justice. _

_This story will be updated once every two weeks, hopefully on a Monday night (circumstances allowing). I am now on Chapter 5, and will always remain a few chapters ahead of you, so you should hopefully never have to wait for an update. Reviews would be very much appreciated. _

_We sincerely hope you enjoy the story - and we beg you to review._

_Enjoy the next chapter!  
_


	2. Education

**RED **

**Chapter One; Education**

Konoha's streets were littered with rain the day Haruno Sakura turned sixteen. The sun tried to make a few weak appearances but was blotted out by a herd of dark clouds hovering over the houses. Having hoped to have spent the day basking in the sun and letting the rays bounce off her pink locks, Sakura was instead faced by a wet-faced friend standing at the doorway of her house, large black umbrella in hand.

'A little rain never hurt anybody, did it now, Sakura?'

She scowled, pulling on a thick coat and a pair of waterproof boots.

'Since _when_ does it rain in the summer?' she scowled as she shut the door behind her, instinctively hunching up under the blanket of the umbrella. The blond at her side laughed.

'Don't be in such a foul mood!' He gave her a scrutinising look, blue eyes crinkling up suspiciously. 'Are you grumpy because you're _old_ now?'

She smacked him instantly, reflexively. The umbrella wobbled and thousands of precarious rain drops were shifted from their home, showering the pair in a mini-downpour.

'Naruto,' Sakura replied in an irritated tone, running her gloved hands through her now sopping hair, 'You're older than me by a year. Don't be an idiot.'

Her response, half-hearted and mocking, earned another chuckle from the umbrella-wielding Naruto. Up against the dark grey background of the world around them, Naruto's hair looked like the hidden sun, popping out now and then from beneath the cloud of the umbrella.

The two walked along the soaking streets of the Leaf Village, bundled together in their clumpy coats as rivulets of rainwater slopped over their boots. Their hair clashed tremendously. Their voices were almost oxymoronic – the quiet, gentle sweetness of a slowly maturing young woman against the brash, grating chuckle of a young man still clinging, somewhere in his heart, to his youth.

They did not decide where to walk. Their feet chose their path, sniffing a way out through the rivers of mildly acidic rain water washing over them. As they walked, and despite the dreary day, Sakura's mood lightened. Naruto's chatter was mindless and lacked any serious intelligibility but his humour and his charm were what she needed to wake herself up. Her Mother and Father were having a particularly hard year in terms of business – not that they'd done anything wrong, but custom had simply been a little slower than in the previous year and pockets had been pulled tighter to make sure the meals on the table did not shrink. This meant, unfortunately for Sakura, that they had only been able to afford one present for her sixteenth birthday.

She appreciated the book on medicine. She really did. However, she had also hoped for something a little more exciting or extravagant; her first lipstick, perhaps, or a new pair of boots that she could wear into _Hatchlings_ the following Monday to steal the stares of her jealous fellow students.

Eager to move her mind away from the idea of _Hatchlings_ at the weekend, Sakura turned her thoughts to the blond companion at her left. Naruto – without parents, with slim income, with few possessions – knew the best present he could give to her was a walk out in the streets, regardless of the rain. She was touched by his thoughtfulness. She imagined he was leading her to the small river that ran through Konoha – it was one of her favourite spots and even though she was hardly short of the sight of water at the moment, she would still always love to gaze into the shallow edges of the river and watch the clouds pass by, upside-down, above her. So easily could the world be turned upon its head! So frighteningly simple was it to uproot everything she knew, turf it out of normality, and then return it by simply looking up instead of down!

Naruto knew how she loved it; knew how it captured her imagination so vividly. The pair, friends since Naruto had smacked Sakura in the face with a football when she'd first moved into her Father's house on Tengoku Street (was it five… no… six years ago now?), had spent many an hour gazing into the wonky river world reflection of their own, and wondered. Those hours passed watching the ripples had nurtured their friendship and allowed a bond to blossom between them. Wrapped together tightly in a changing world around them, a world they did not quite understand, the two had come to rely on one another.

From the age of fourteen, Sakura had no longer attended mixed school, but was enrolled (as national requirement dictated) in _Hatchlings_, Konoha's state education system for young women. She was a bright young thing – she knew it, too – and felt wasted learning how to sew and cook and iron sheets to a crisp satisfaction whilst Naruto, simply because of his sex, attended _Juveniles_, the male equivalent, and learned politics, philosophy, and the art of war. How to protect a family. How to prep a rifle. He knew of her frustration; he could see it in the occasional clenched fist as they walked along, and so on most week nights Naruto dedicated his evenings, where he could, to teaching her everything he learned in the dull grey classroom of the day. Sat back to back on the banks of Konoha River, Naruto would impart, parrot fashion, what he had picked up, and Sakura would take in, soaking the words in hungrily, probing with her mind, and ignoring the mindless chores she had perfected during the day.

Often, she wondered whether she and Naruto should swap lives. Just for the day, of course. She could prove herself worthy of the _Juvenile _institution, revelling in the modern politics and laws and regulations that Naruto so despised, thriving on the smooth click of the trigger as she handled the weapons with ease. Of course, the threat of war was slowly looming larger – Naruto had explained Konoha's imminent desire for more space for Leaves to her many times in the ageing sunlight of the river bank – but Sakura could handle that. She could handle heading out to fight for her country; stretching her legs and proving herself in the name of righteousness for the citizens of the Leaf Village.

And Naruto, in the meantime… Sakura knew he had always yearned for the quiet life. His chatter was youthful, energetic – but his soul ached for peace. Simplicity. Sometimes, Sakura wondered if Naruto was actually a hybrid – two people squashed into one blond haired, blue eyed body. Naruto Number One was loud, and brash, and jumped in and thrashed. Naruto Number Two was the quiet, gentle motivation for the other – Naruto Number Two was the lover of peace.

So it wouldn't really hurt, decided Sakura as they reached the muddy river bank, if she and Naruto swapped places for the day. She could handle the world, she was sure. And Naruto would have a fine time learning the best way to cook potatoes.

'Sakura.'

She blinked; the world had been lost to her for a moment. Catching herself, she glanced up at Naruto and noticed that one of his shoulders was getting very wet by poking out from the shadow of the umbrella.

'Your shoulder is soaked, Naruto.'

'Do you want to learn about the New Red Laws?'

That really caught her attention. Naruto could easily bait her sharp, keen mind with promises of politics. She gazed at him for a moment, scrutinising him.

'What's the cost?'

Her question earned her a bright, mischievous grin. 'One kiss.'

She scowled instantly. 'No deal.'

Somewhere deep inside, a voice muttered that she liked the attention, but Sakura's one pet hate about Naruto was that he fancied himself as having a chance with her. It didn't exactly come up often, but she sometimes found herself wondering whether he was nice to her because he was her friend, or nice to her because he wanted to up his chances. And occasionally, she found herself teasing him a little, offering _him_ the bait of a kiss, never really considering the possibility of it. In a way, she thought, they were as bad as each other. But to offer her such meaty, tempting bait with the same old request as always was a little mean on Naruto's part.

He could see the reluctant anger in her eyes, so Naruto quickly changed his tact.

'All right, all right. No kiss. I want at least two cakes out of the next batch you bake in _Hatchlings_.'

Peace established in less than twenty words, Sakura held out her slender hand. 'Deal.'

The grass was too wet for them to sit on. The riverbank, decorated here and there with the occasional leafy tree, was sopping, and the host of water dancing through its middle chattered with the pelt of the rain. The pair took shelter under one particularly large oak, and, keeping the umbrella up, Naruto began to talk.

'I was explaining the problem of the Reds to you the other day, do you remember?'

Sakura nodded eagerly, almost physically feeling the connections wiring up and lighting inside her mind. 'Of course. How they betrayed Konoha after the First Great War, and how their population is growing, and how the Hokage thinks they may be planning to revolt and ruin the countr--'

'Do you know what makes a Red, Sakura?'

She paused at Naruto's question, answers tingling in her jaw but none of them seeming to make sense. 'What do you mean?'

'What makes them different to us Leaves?'

A drop of rain managed to find its way down her back, sliding down the pale skin of her spine as she found the answer. The one she'd known for years without really being sure where she'd learned it.

'Well, they're just not as _good_ as us Leaves, are they? They're…_inferior_.'

Naruto offered her a nearly smile, and then looked out at the river. It seemed sad today. Sakura followed his gaze, and the bright green of her eyes seemed to dim against the grey pallor of the water.

'Do you remember those Blood Banks that the Third set up?'

He didn't look at her when he spoke, but Sakura knew he expected her to answer. 'Yes. They were for Reds to give blood, weren't they?'

'That's right,' Naruto answered, his safe, pale blue eyes gazing away. 'The science of it is that Leaves, like you and I, have blood type O, or A, or AB, or B. It's just the blood we're born with. Different people have different blood types – you and I may not have the same blood. It comes from your parents.'

He paused, checking she was still following – her eyes let him know she was taking everything in.

'Well, there is also Blood Group R, which gets its name from the high levels of protein lying on the surface of the red cells in the blood. Group R is quite rare. Anyone with R type blood is known as a "Red".'

She was still with him.

'I'm still not completely sure of the biology behind it all…' he chuckled a little, 'because Shikamaru and I were messing around in the lesson on Thursday, but, what I can gather is that Blood Group R has quite strong regenerative powers.'

Her imagination was sparked. 'Regenerative?'

'It heals well, and clots more consistently than other blood groups. It's also more compatible than all of the other blood groups – some of them you can't mix together because they'll reject each other. R is compatible with every other blood type and won't be rejected.'

'So,' Sakura continued, her mind ticking away, 'when the Fourth set up these Blood Banks, he was encouraging Reds to give blood as it could be used to help more people?'

Naruto nodded. A small wind picked up and brushed a shaft of rain into their eyes.

'However,' Naruto returned to the lesson, wiping the rainwater out of his eyes, 'I've heard that the Reds were quite uncooperative with the Blood Banks and often refused to attend, even when it was made a legal requirement last year. And for that, the Reds are being punished.'

'Punished?'

Another nod. 'The New Red Laws were passed last week by the Fourth Hokage. It's basically two new rules: the first is that Reds are forbidden to marry, or… uh… have _relations_ with Leaf citizens. The second is that Reds are no longer classed as _citizens_ of Konoha – they will simply be known as _Nationals_.'

'So the Reds lose their rights as citizens of Konoha?'

The two were silent for a moment. The world in which they had been placed was hard for them to understand. Sometimes, Sakura thought it seemed more like the upside down world that wobbled in the river. Ever since she could remember the Fourth had been tipping the Leaves off about the plans of the Reds – how they were going to take her Father's business from him, how they could destroy whole villages if left to breed and to prosper, how the Reds were poisonous. Reds were Reds. No matter how nice they were.

It wasn't really a question of believing it, for Sakura. Fact was fact, and the facts of this matter were that Sakura's Father was slowly earning less and less money, while posters told her that Reds were making more and more. And here was Naruto telling her of their special blood which they refused to share.

Selfish.

In a way, the New Red Laws made her glad. If Reds weren't prepared to help their nation, what rights did they have to be treated as equal citizens? The country was embroiled in hardship – it had been since the First Great War twelve years ago. A decade was not enough time for a country to repair itself. And to make matters worse, it was being eaten apart from the inside by the selfishness of a race that could help. How could the Fourth Hokage continue to increase the greatness of Konoha if he was plagued with a host of people who insisted upon hindering him?

Reds did not deserve rights.

'Have you ever met a Red, Sakura?'

She'd been dragged down into her thoughts again – it seemed to be happening more and more often, as she got older. Youth was being exchanged for intelligence and a mind that loved to examine itself. Blinking away her anger, Sakura processed Naruto's words.

'No,' she answered, her voice a little harder than she liked. 'And I don't want to.'

Naruto tore his gaze away from the depths of the river and looked at her. Studied her face. Read the propagandised fury in her eyes.

'Do you know,' he murmured, after a moment, 'that they say you can recognise a Red by his eyes? That they _glow_ in the light of a torch? Like the eyes of a _rat_?'

He looked up, towards the grey sky and the wind that cried over them. 'I've never noticed it. I've never seen a physical difference. I wouldn't have even guessed…'

'You should carry a torch,' Sakura said stubbornly, not liking the near-disappointment hinted at in his words. Had she done something wrong? Had she missed a point?

'I don't think so,' he said. 'I don't see why I'd need to.'

Naruto was the upside down part of her world. He was the part that didn't fit, that didn't hate. The part that wobbled and shifted, and thought for itself more than anybody else she knew. Even more than her Father.

'I should get home,' she said quietly, not liking the feeling that she'd let him down. All she'd wanted to do was learn. Since when had the word 'Red' been able to spark such a response in her? 'It's getting late.'

'Alright.' Naruto smiled, but to Sakura, the smile didn't reach the corners of his eyes. Perhaps the rain had saddened him. He reminded her of the river.

'But I want to take you home a different way.'

* * *

He held her hand.

She knew it was serious when he held her hand.

Naruto led her home through streets he himself had declared as 'out of bounds' in the past. They seemed darker than Tengoku street (Sakura took great pleasure in explaining that the word _Tengoku_ meant 'heaven' in the native tongue of Konoha. She liked to introduce herself as an angel) but that could have just been down to the rain and the clouds gathering overhead. Clutching Naruto's hand, dragged along through puddles and darkness, Sakura felt as far away from sixteen as she could be.

She felt like an infant having their eyes stretched open to the real world.

Where was her underwater, wrong-side-up world now? Where was the rippling place to hide now she was faced with boarded up shops and slurs marking the windows in cheap, greasy paint? Her hungry mind took it all in; the ruined houses dotted about along the bleak street, the personal and artistic touches such as an abandoned shoe that could never fit a child more than three years old, tossed aside on the pavement and sodden in the dirty rain.

Why had she never seen this?

Naruto seemed to lose his sense of urgency when he got her into the thick of it, when they were surrounded by crumbling boards and silence-infested spaces.

'Scarlet Row,' he said, catching his breath as they slowed to a walk. 'This place is known as Scarlet Row.'

Never had _Tengoku_ seemed so far away. Never had she wanted more to close the blue door to her little house and shut out the weather.

'Dreary, isn't it?' Naruto's voice took on a callous tone. 'Needs a good lick of paint.'

Sakura couldn't help but note the irony in his statement as she stared at a boarded up window nearby with the words _RED AND DEAD_ slashed into it like an angry scratch upon pale white skin.

'Do…' Her mouth was dry. 'Do people live here?'

'Most of them have been cleared out.' Why was his tone so factual? How could the ruin of this street not affect him? 'A few weeks ago, the _Fang_ came and declared all Red business on this street to be illegal. Citizenship rights, and all that. Smashed the buildings up and chased the Reds out.'

'Where do they go?' She was appalled. Naruto shrugged.

'There are a few streets left safe for Reds. Every rat finds a hidey-hole, right?'

Sakura's heart pounded in her ears at his words. She knew the Reds were greedy and nasty and part of the 'problem' but the part of her that loved (her heart – one of the biggest in the world) could not fit the two scenes together. The Red – ratty, beady eyes, pockets full of wrongfully taken money – and this street, and the shoe, and the paint on the walls, and the empty, humiliated silence.

How did they fit?

'The Poisonous Mushroom.' His voice was almost drowned out by the rain, which seemed heavier in this street. 'That's what they're calling them. The Red Poisonous Mushrooms.'

He turned to her, looking so out of place with his Leaf eyes and his Leaf hair and his perfect genetics. Who was he to tread this ground?

'I want to go home,' whispered Sakura, tears stinging at the back of her eyes. She'd seen too much. 'What sort of a place is this to take me for my birthday?'

Naruto smiled at her. It was soft in the rain.

'You're an adult now.' His words pattered upon her like the falling sky around them. 'This is the world you're always so desperate for me to tell you about.'

A tear escaped, blown out by the wind.

'I don't want to know any more,' she said, the stubbornness returning to her voice weakly. 'I want to shut my eyes and never see this again. I never want to meet a Red in my life.'

Naruto's smile faded as he held her in the rain. It was almost as if he knew.

* * *

Of course, he does not know. How can he? His time is set; straight. He cannot weave in and out of it as we do. His path is direct and one way. No turning back. No stepping out of line. Of course he does not know.

But we know.

* * *


	3. Two Friends

Author's note: Welcome back to Red; here's chapter 2 for you guys. This chapter has been looked over by my friends Janine and Mark. Neither of whom are Naruto watchers/readers! Give some love to the two very dedicated friends! I think I shall name Janine as my official beta on this fic!

Enjoy chapter 2.

* * *

**RED **

**Chapter Two; Two friends.**

**

* * *

  
**

'_You really shouldn't be here.'_

'_You keep telling me that.'_

'_You're going to get yourself killed over something that really doesn't concern you.'_

'_Of course it concerns me. It concerns all of us. This country is dying.'_

* * *

Hatake Kakashi listened to the rattling rain for a moment more before casting a wary glance at his typewriter.

A pause.

A sigh.

'Are you going to be like this all day?" he asked the rusty machine, tapping a few of the keys flippantly before letting another sigh escape through his nose.

'I don't know why I expect you to help me. When's the last time you ever offered anything decent up?'

He scratched his scalp through his silvering hair before stretching and getting up from his wooden chair, pushing away from his desk with a sense of almost pious injustice. The smell of stone, mildewed floor tickled him as he rose to as much of his full height as he could imagine before the tiny basement roof could clap him about the ears. Unperturbed by the machine's lack of contribution to his latest masterpiece, _Hearts in the Desert_, Kakashi dawdled up the rough cut basement stairs into the kitchen of his small house.

He hadn't realised he'd spent the night in the basement. It had seemed like an hour.

Another missed appointment with Time, then.

His wife's face confirmed it. Night time had passed him by in a dull blur of white on white – the occasional tap and click of a key here and there had threatened to offer some distraction, but the darkness had passed uneventfully. Not a single word written. Not a single second noticed.

Wondering how much he could get away with, Kakashi slid into a chair at the small, round wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. The tablecloth was clean – his wife was almost obsessively immaculate – but worn, and tattered at the edges.

'How are you this morning, dear?'

His wife dropped a plate of burnt toast before him. The scent of the blackened bread couldn't quite hide the distinct aroma of her outrage.

* * *

Anko is a woman of many talents. Her toast is always impeccably crisped. Her vocabulary is warped with mild swears uttered in a vicious lace of the teeth. Her heart is wrapped in sand, but melts and loves at the most gentle of touches.

* * *

'Smells delicious, Anko…'

His lying skills, appalling as always, let him down, and Kakashi bit into the toast under the watchful, reproachful glare of his wife of eleven years. As the bitter taste dug into his tongue, he hoped this was his punishment.

'Why didn't you come to bed last night?'

He just about managed to not sigh through his nostrils. Experience had taught him that it didn't help.

A lie was best. A massive, extravagant lie that she would never believe.

'The most amazing thing happened to me in that basement, Anko,' he shovelled out through a mouthful of toast. 'There I was sat, writing away, _lost_ for ideas, feeling our livelihoods sinking away into a black abyss, when all of a sudden a haggard, wizened old fairy appeared… she granted me one wish… I wished for the words to write my next story, and she granted it, and I spent the rest of the night typing so furiously that I didn't even realise the sun had come up…'

* * *

Hatake Kakashi is a very ordinary, very extraordinary man. He is a terrible writer. And a terrible liar. He wears a patch over one eye, for reasons almost lost in the past that Time would soon like to bring up again.

He also has, without knowing it, the ability to tell the future.

* * *

Anko watched him, buttering a charcoaled piece of toast stiffly.

'You're an absolute cretin. An imbecile. An _idiot_.'

'You say that now,' Kakashi winked with his one good eye, 'but my basement-book will be the greatest story ever told! You'll see!'

Lips pursed, and one lone eyebrow lifted in just the right manner to make Kakashi sweat a little over his words, Anko finished buttering the toast and let out a raucous, shrill cry.

'Oy! _Forehead_! Your breakfast is ready! Get down here, _Pig_!'

There was a pattering on the stairs. Anko plated up the toast gruffly. She was a svelte woman, slender in all the right places, with long, pale legs and a stern face. In the right light, she moved like a crane fly, casting long, cold shadows that were surprisingly warm when they caught you.

Sakura, sixteen years and two days old, bolted into the kitchen, hair scraped into a messy ponytail, and threw herself onto a chair next to her Father, who had buried his existence into yesterday's newspaper.

The burnt bread was never bemoaned. There were no luxuries like eggs, or cheese, for breakfast any more. Sakura could remember dipping small soldiers of toast into a sweet yellow egg, letting the yolk cling to the bitty black toast before tearing into it with her young teeth. Now, the butter was stretched and thin, barely whetting the appetite of the dry, greedy bread.

Sakura ate hungrily.

'Father,' she said as she chewed, forgetting to be ladylike in the comfort of her home, 'I won't be home till late. I'm meeting Naru--'

'That blond idiot?' her Mother spat, wiping her hands on her neatly tied apron. 'Why you must waste your time with that imbecile is beyond me, _Pig_.'

A noise that sounded disturbingly like an _oink_ came from behind the newspaper. Sakura giggled and polished off her toast, stuffing the last mouthfuls through her lips and washing them down with the glass of water her mother handed to her.

'He's not an _idiot_, Mother,' she defended as soon as her mouth was empty. 'He teaches me things!'

Anko made a _hmmm_ noise. 'I'm sure he does. Like how to be an idiot.'

Sakura rolled her eyes discreetly, but Anko caught them.

'Don't roll your eyes at your Mother, _Forehead_, unless you want to feel my rolling pin on your ar--'

Sakura was gone. Smoothed down her uniform, raced out of the kitchen and into the street. Her Father had winked at her on the way out.

* * *

These days, the rain refused to lay off.

Naruto could remember a summer three years ago when it had rained all through April and May, and even a little of June. But July had been glorious, and the winter had even been mild. He didn't mind that. He didn't mind if it balanced out.

For the briefest of moments, he wondered what would happen to Konoha if the rain failed to stop falling. The trees, so splendid and magnificent in the sun, would pass away. Drown. Flowers would wilt and die, their once gorgeous petals washed away in a tide of grey, wet misery. The river bank would burst, and he and Sakura would be swept up, above the houses, away from the beautiful time spent together, giving and taking, into a place where they could no longer hear the words in each other's mouths.

With a doleful glance upward, Naruto wished fervently for the rain to stop.

* * *

Wishes often fall on deaf ears. The rain will hardly stop for the next five years. Only for snow; only for faint, wet sunshine. That is because Heaven is crying, and it takes time to dry tears.

* * *

He was supposed to be in _Juvenilles_ today but he really hated Tuesdays and often skipped the afternoon class. He hated those classes because they _taught_ him to hate. He didn't like that they did that. Naruto was the type of person who made up his own mind.

So he was meeting a friend (well, the friend didn't know that yet, but they would meet, this afternoon), and contemplating going for a walk before he met up with Sakura in the evening. He had nothing new to teach her today. But _she_ had cookery, and a deal to keep.

Loitering every Tuesday near the local munitions factory in the outskirts of Konoha had told him that his friend passed by at about two o clock for the weekly pick up of steel and iron. Naruto took a seat at a small sandwich stall and ordered two sandwiches, his hungry belly instructing him to munch on one of them. He took off his _Juvenilles_ cap and fanned himself with it. The rain was hot today. Sticky, like flesh.

At two o' clock, his friend passed the sandwich stall without noticing him. He pushed a wobbly looking wheelbarrow through the rain, and his hair stuck to his face. At ten past two, he returned, wheelbarrow scarcely filled with tatty pieces of scrap metal.

Naruto called out to him from beneath the protective roof of the sandwich stand.

'Oy! I bought you a sandwich!'

The boy in the street had to mop his black hair out of his eyes he was so drenched. He met Naruto's blue-eyed gaze with his own, before shouting back, propping his wheelbarrow in the mud soaked ground.

'I can't just leave this here!'

He gestured with long arms to the wheelbarrow.

Naruto sighed. Friends could be so stubborn.

'Bring it over!' he called back, his voice echoing in the small stand. 'Just don't get that mud any---'

'No way, kid,' a voice from behind Naruto interrupted. He turned his head slightly to look at the owner of the stall who had just sold him the sandwiches. 'You're not bringing that thing in here.'

He wanted to scowl. He wanted to rant at the man, cut him with words, make him see sense.

He could not.

With a sigh, Naruto swiped up the sandwich from the counter, determined to at least have his money's worth, and walked away. Put it behind him.

He hadn't brought his umbrella with him. He refused to put his cap back on.

Annoyance still glinting in his face, Naruto handed the sandwich to his friend, who'd watched the scene unwind with an awkward look on his rain-drenched face.

'Here,' Naruto handed over the now sopping sandwich. 'Don't say I'm not good to you, Sasuke.'

The taller boy looked uncomfortable as he looked from the wet bread to Naruto, and then back to the shop.

'You shouldn't be buying me lunch.'

Naruto tutted as Sasuke stuffed the sandwich into a jacket pocket. 'Right. You would have gotten your own.'

'That's not what I'm saying.'

Sasuke picked up the wheelbarrow by its handles. The few pieces of metal in it clanked against each other as he began to push it, quite vigorously, through the mud. Naruto walked beside him.

They fell into a strange sort of silence. Of course, it wasn't silent – the sound of their feet pushing through the mud and the wheel of the barrow slipping through the ground was almost as pronounced as the hiss of the rain. Their breathing – Naruto's still angry, and Sasuke's quieter, was almost drowned out.

'You really need to get some sort of cover for that thing,' Naruto pointed out after a few minutes, nodding down at the rusty wheelbarrow. 'Look. The metal you picked up is getting soaked. Won't it rust?'

'We only buy galvanised metal' Sasuke replied, guiding the wheelbarrow out of the path of an oncoming rock. 'It shouldn't rust.'

Naruto nodded. His blond hair looked mousy now, saturated with rain water. He didn't want the noisy silence to return.

'You been busy?'

Sasuke glanced at him. 'Not really. Bits and pieces.'

The two were heading across to the other side of Konoha. Most of the village's factories were located in the western outskirts, but Sasuke lived in a small section of town in the east. Konoha was about five miles wide, give or take, but Naruto usually appreciated the exercise he got keeping his friend company on the walk. The rain, however, dampened his spirits.

And Sasuke wasn't generally a talker.

The two young men had known each other for a very long time. Sasuke had left school at thirteen to help out with the small blacksmith business that the family ran, but before that, he and Naruto had made a notorious name for themselves as the two 'fighters' of the playground. Fist fighting. They loved it.

Their first fight had been completely hate-fuelled. Young madness. Naruto remembered it brightly. Sasuke had been the best fighter in the year above, and Naruto, being his cocky self, had proclaimed he could beat him. Sasuke, with a sneer he had perfected over the coming years, had smoothly commented that Naruto was a runt – indeed, the height difference between the two was still fairly noticeable – and had no chance.

Naruto had won.

They'd both broken their noses, and Sasuke had come away from the fight with a nasty cut along his right eyebrow that his elder brother had scolded him about. Nothing hurt him more than the chunk bitten out of his pride, however, and in their next fight he had pummelled Naruto so hard that his wrist had broken. Not having fought since Sasuke was forced to leave school, the score stood at twelve wins for Sasuke, and ten for Naruto.

Naruto was happy to give up on trying to beat Sasuke now. They'd grown close, in a way, hugging with bloodied fists. And the world was trying to get in the way, but that didn't stop Naruto loitering around the metalwork factory every Tuesday and meeting up with his old nemesis for a little while. Didn't stop him buying Sasuke a wet sandwich to eat on the way home.

Didn't stop Sasuke taking it.

'You know,' Naruto said quietly as they moved on to a busy street, 'A friend of mine suggested I carry a torch around with me, for my own safety.'

That earned him a snort from his taller friend. 'Save yourself the money. I'll forge you a dagger for free. Might be a little more handy.'

Naruto's smile made his eyes crinkle, despite the rainwater flowering down his face.

'Apparently, you can tell a Red from a Leaf if you shine it in their eyes. Something to do with the eyes glowing.'

Any amusement was gone from Sasuke's face, as if the sky had washed it away. He watched Naruto for a moment, expression unreadable.

Just before he could reply the two were interrupted by the shout of a skinny blond girl across the street. Her voice crawled out from beneath her blue umbrella.

'Naruto! What are you doing?'

Naruto ignored her, his eyes locking straight ahead. Sasuke watched the shimmering metal in his wheelbarrow, dotted here and there by little tears of rainwater.

The girl did not stop.

'Oy! Naruto! Why are you walking with him? What are you doing?'

Eyes forward. Eyes down. Listening to the tiny clanging of the scrap metal as the rain pummelled it.

'_NARUTO_! Can't you hear me?'

Peaceful fists curled.

'What are you _doing?_!'

Heartbeat, heartbeat. Righteousness. Fury.

'_Why are you walking with that stinking __**Red**__?'_

Blond stopped. Black caught his breath. Gripped the handles of the wheelbarrow. Blond spun.

'How _dare_ you!' Naruto growled, the rain trailing between his eyes, into his snarled lip. 'How _DARE_ you! This is my _friend_! Don't you _ever--_'

Sasuke grabbed Naruto swiftly by the chest of his jacket and turned him away from the girl and the people beside her who were now watching the two of them in the middle of the street. Naruto stumbled a little, caught off balance, and Sasuke righted him, quickly moving them in the opposite direction.

'You idiot,' Sasuke muttered as he grabbed hold of his supplies. 'What are you shouting back for? It won't make any difference!'

Naruto shook himself free of Sasuke's grip. 'How can you just let them _say that_? You're a human being! Just like them! Just like me!'

Something whizzed past them. The two boys froze momentarily, watching a fist-sized rock roll through the mud with a sizzle.

'Not to them I'm not,' Sasuke hissed out after a moment's pause, shaking his slender body into action. 'Come on!'

Naruto, stunned by the aggression hurled in their direction, had to be pulled along by Sasuke, still clinging desperately to the metal he had picked up earlier in the rusty wheelbarrow. There were shouts coming from behind them; _Red lover_ and _Red Rat_ were the two that rang in Naruto's ears. Sasuke's feet pounded in the mud next to him as they ran along, rain slicking down their backs.

A particularly well-aimed rock struck Naruto in the back, and he slid into the mud with a cry, smearing his clothes with the dirt of the street and dropping his cap. Sasuke ground to a halt, fingers shaking, knowing full well he was stopping in a notoriously _antirouge_ area but unable to leave Naruto to an undeserved beating in the mud. Cursing under his breath, Sasuke gripped Naruto by the sleeves and pulled him to his shaky feet.

'You really shouldn't be here!' he hissed as he steadied the blond, aware that he'd left his cargo unmanned. Naruto gasped for air from their run, coughing the rainwater out of his lungs.

'You keep telling me that.'

Frustrated, Sasuke could barely resist the urge to punch his old rival square in the jaw.

'You're going to get yourself _killed_ over something that really doesn't concern you!'

He didn't often raise his voice, but Sasuke felt the need to. Naruto was an innocent party. He had done _nothing_ to deserve this.

The irony was lost on him in the rain.

Naruto scowled at him stubbornly, rain slitting down between his eyes. 'Of course it concerns me. It concerns all of us. This country is dying.'

A few people had poked their heads out from their shops, despite the rain, to witness the two drenched boys and a rusty old wheelbarrow in the street. A few of the rock throwers had followed them.

'Look!' The shrill, high voice of a young _Juvenille_ was as painstakingly obvious as blood on white paint. 'That _stinking_ Red pushed the Leaf there into the mud!'

More rocks. Sasuke's thumping heart sank as he realised he'd probably have to leave the wheelbarrow. The week's supplies. With a frenzied glance at Naruto, who was absolutely coated in sludge and dirt, he ignored the voice in his mind that swore he was wasting his time.

'You're wrong!' he said, feeling like a rat cornered by a clowder of cats. 'I was helping him up!'

* * *

Why is he bothering? They all know his words have less value than theirs. Why does he expect they can hear him?

* * *

Dodging another small stone hurled in his direction, Sasuke backed towards his wheelbarrow. Somewhere in his panicking brain, he was still trying to work out how he could escape a public beating without losing his supplies. Like a mathematical problem, his mind scoured over the few equations that led to his escape.

None of them factored in the supplies.

'_Poisonous!'_ somebody was shouting. Naruto could hardly believe what he was hearing, what he was seeing. His back stung from the rock that had caught him. _'Poisonous, filthy Red!'_

He could not find the words to express. The thoughts to connect. The will to retaliate.

Mind trapped in a dull sort of realisation, Naruto noticed that somebody was trying to shine a torch in Sasuke's eyes. He looked like a prisoner, face patchy in the beam of a searchlight.

His mind flicked back to Scarlet Row. His time with Sakura there only days before. A small series of hours. Her trembling, damp shock. The bloody red writing all over the doors. The abandoned shoe. The endless rain. Telltale.

This time it was he who grabbed Sasuke, pulling the tall boy away just as a stone cuffed him on the temple. Sasuke staggered for a moment before gaining his footing. They were off. Sandwich and hat lost to the baying wolves.

The wheelbarrow, too, was lost as the two boys raced away, youth and fear giving them an edge. Naruto swept them through a few skinny alleys, allowing himself the short, sweet bliss of the empty air beside them as the hateful shouts faded into the distance.

After a good ten minutes of running, the two boys stopped to catch their breath, chests heaving in sheer strenuous exhaustion. Naruto could feel a bruise forming in the middle of his back. Sasuke had blood running down from an old scar split open.

Naruto stared at Sasuke for a moment.

It wasn't the blood.

His eyes were red.

_**Red.**_

'You don't need a torch,' Sasuke gasped quietly, harrowingly scarlet gaze narrowing at Naruto. 'You don't _need_ a torch to see what I am.'

Naruto was silent, allowing his lungs to work resiliently, listening to the throb in his back.

'Even in the blackest of night…' Voice dull and heavy, like the steel scattered on the ground, in the mud, Sasuke sank to his knees. 'I'm still a Red.'

Naruto waited a little longer, gulping hot, wet oxygen into his mouth. After a moment he stood straight, taking his hands off his knees and tenderly feeling his back. He nodded toward the small cut on Sasuke's forehead, nudging into the right eyebrow.

'Itachi's going to kill you.'

Sasuke felt the cut with a still shaking hand, unable to stop the tremors that haunted his body.

'Great. Add him to the list.'

* * *

In the face of such spitting hate and adversity, a sense of humour like that is quite impressive, don't you think?

Do you wonder if he will survive? This black haired boy and his brother? Red to the bone?

Let us be honest.

The odds are against them.

Red to the bone. Red to the death.

* * *

As grey melted into black in the slink of the horizon, Sakura waited by the river. It was getting too dark for her to see her own reflection in the water, but she could still catch the small white splashes where the bullets of rain flew down. She'd worn her pink raincoat to protect herself but the wind slid the rain underneath her flimsy shelter and she was a little damp. In her hands she held a small tray, covered by foil.

Sakura kept her promises.

It seemed that Naruto did not.

Naruto had been due at six o clock, and two hours alone in the rain passed slowly and uncomfortably. Apart from the presence of herself, the riverbank was abandoned, chased to emptiness by the bad weather. She felt like the lonely figure in a painting, with only the heavy artist's brush to keep her company as he splattered in the rain. When her watch read eight o clock, she gave up. Sakura wasn't scared of the dark – she was sixteen! – but the rain, warm though it was, chilled her skin through her raincoat as it dried and made her long for the comfort of the living room fire.

He arrived just as she was leaving, typically. They just stared at one another for a moment before Sakura narrowed her eyes, pulled her face into a sulky pout, and dropped the tray on the ground, silently enjoying the sound of the cakes she'd worked so hard on earlier smashing together in a ruin. The moment the soft, tasty buns rolled out onto the saturated grass, Sakura turned and walked away. She didn't look back at Naruto standing in the rain, minus his umbrella and hat. She was too wet to care why he was so late.

'Sakura! Wait! I'm sorry I'm so late – today's been so craz-'

She continued to walk, shielding her ears from his pleas with the sopping hood of her jacket. The rain ran into her face but she didn't care. She was only sixteen, and her feelings were still easily dented and battered. Her feet stormed through the mud, knowing she'd see him tomorrow. Behind her, he disappeared into the scenery, blending in with the rain that wrapped the world.

Instinct took her to her Father's book shop, where the silver-haired man was just locking up. Sakura was waiting for him as he stepped out into the night. He looked at her for a moment with one exposed brown eye, and then quickly locked the door. His long, sleek black coat started to glow silver as the rain began to attack him, but instead of putting his matching black umbrella over his head, Kakashi crouched down and sprung it up over Sakura's.

'You look a little wet, Piggy.'

His tone was soft and melting; Sakura could roll up in it, despite the stony rain. His hair immediately began to stick to his face and she watched for a little while as the strands began to lie across his skin like abandoned pieces of string. When he was thoroughly soaked, Kakashi stood up, keeping the umbrella over Sakura's head, and the two began to walk home.

'Doesn't he normally walk you home?'

Sakura scowled at her Father's perceptiveness, even with only one eye.

'That _idiot_ got to the riverbank two hours late. I was going as he was coming!'

Father chuckled at the heat and unhappiness in her voice. 'You didn't want to stay with him?'

The pretty young girl's scowl deepened. 'Of course not. He was _two hours late_! I'm _soaked_!'

She loved her Father's laugh, even when it was at her expense. It reminded her of being six years old, on a beach in a place she couldn't remember, near the smell of her old mother, with a handful of hot, golden sand that erupted when she squeezed her fingers. The shimmering dust fell from his lips again.

'Sakura, sometimes a man can be late and have a _good_ reason for it! Did you hear him out?'

Sakura shook her head defiantly, the raincoat rustling about her ears. 'Not a chance. There's simply _no excuse_ for leaving a lady standing in the rain for two hours!'

Father smiled.

'What about me?' he said mischievously, 'I'm late for everything. I'm even late now. Your Mother will have my guts!'

It was Sakura's turn to laugh; a laugh still maturing and finding its own tone. 'Father, you're different. If _you_ were on time, I'd be worried!'

'Well then!' Her Father seemed thoroughly amused by her double standards. 'I should think you could forgive Naruto for being late just the once.'

As the conversation swung back around to the subject of the tardy young man, Sakura's mind drifted reluctantly back to how he'd held her hand in Scarlet Row. How his words were sharp, but she did not know what he had pierced with them. How his eyes were pleading but she did not understand how to satisfy them.

She saw the tiny shoe, abandoned and alone on the gravel. And she saw its owner, bright red imaginary eyes aglow in her mind, and did not feel afraid.

'Father?'

He did not turn to her, but a tiny 'hmm?' escaping his throat told her she had his attention.

'Why are the Reds bad?'

She hated how young and ridiculous she sounded. Naruto had seemed so grown up, so mature when he told her the things he'd learned in _Juveniles_. The Poisonous Mushroom. The Red Plague.

Her Father sighed. She watched the rainwater slink in grey rivers down his coat.

'That's not an easy question for me to answer, Sakura. Let me ask you what _you_ think first.'

She glanced up at the black sky of the umbrella. 'I don't know. I think I'm supposed to say that I think they're terrible – they'll steal our business, they'll cheat us out of money. But I've never even _met_ a Red – I mean, not that I'd _want_ to, if they really are as bad as people say… but there must be little Red children out there, and Red girls that are my age…'

Father chuckled at her confusion, his tall shoulders shaking drops of water off.

'Sakura, you've met _plenty_ of Reds! Quite a few of my customers are Red, and our window-cleaner, and that nice man whose house your mother used to clean. You've probably spoken to a hundred Reds and never even realised!'

He crouched down, spotting her sudden feeling of embarrassment. After a moment of watching her face, he reached out a wet hand and ruffled the top of her head affectionately. Her hair was tucked into her hood, but his hand made a rustling sound.

'You're a good girl, do you know that, Sakura?'

Her confusion became more apparent. Father's smile was warm.

'Listen. I would never, _ever_ tell you what to think. But you shouldn't let anybody else, either. What the Fourth has been saying about the Reds – well, some people believe it, and some people don't. The important thing is to _make up your own mind_.'

Sakura watched her Father with round, bright eyes. His face was quite young for a man who'd fought in a war not ten years ago. His hair, though, hoary and fine, added the missing years to him.

'How do I do that?' she asked, face quizzical. 'I don't really understand anything about the situation! You and Naruto know so much, so you _can_ make up your own minds, but I can't even tell a Red from a Leaf…'

She trailed off at Father's ever-proud smile. The umbrella was shielding both of them, twisted together to hide from the omnipresent rain.

'Well there you go,' Father said, as though she'd made some electrifying new discovery. 'Think about it.'

He stood, and when he next spoke, his voice was different to how Sakura had ever heard it before. She'd heard him be angry. She'd heard him be mean. Disappointed, sad, bored, impish, and guilty.

She had never heard this.

'Whatever you do,' he said, mouth seeming to move in slow-motion, 'don't let the world around you know of your decision. Keep your thoughts to yourself. Keep your beliefs quiet. Don't change a thing. Do you understand?'

Shocked at the severity of his words and the hard, solid brown of his eye, Sakura nodded, her eyes wide, like a child, and her lips suddenly dry.

'Yes, Father.'

They had reached the front door of their house. A scowling Mother was watching them from the top window. Father pushed a small key into the door with a clinking sound.

'You're a good girl, Piggy.'

He stepped into the house, and Sakura stood still for a moment, watching the drops of rain slip from the edges of her umbrella and thinking hard. Not until her Mother dragged her into the hall, cursing at her stupidity and muttering something about how she must have 'caught it from that idiot she keeps seeing', did Sakura awaken from her thoughts and turn her gaze away from the child with the red eyes that she had never met.

* * *


	4. Crystal Night

**Red**

**Chapter Three; Crystal Night**

_A/N Big thanks to Janine for editing and checking, as always. _

_Enjoy Chapter Three.  
_

* * *

Time is creeping closer, and none of them realise it.

Scratch that.

One of them realises it. Perhaps two. Soon, a secret meeting will occur between some of the figures on this canvas which will change the course of everything. And nothing.

You have met one of them. You will meet the other soon.

Hold your hands to your eyes. Watch out for the glass.

It's sharp.

* * *

Weeks began to slide by in a haze of rain. Sakura continued her life as normal; she attended _Hatchlings_ religiously, throwing her mind into a frenzy of ingredients and medicines. The time came for her to decide which career she would like to pursue, and her choice was clear.

She would be a Nurse.

It was what both her Mother and Father wanted.

* * *

Kakashi is the one who chose the book. He can see into the future, remember?

* * *

She was due to begin her course in medicine in two weeks. It would last for the duration of five years and in that time she would be trained up to be a fully qualified nurse. Three of the years (starting when she turned eighteen) would be work based; out in the local hospitals. And, although she was a little frightened of this challenging new future, Sakura was thrilled to be doing something other than learning how to arrange flowers neatly and fold a quilt to perfection. She had always been the type to give herself to something completely, and she studied her textbook diligently, occasionally asking her Father what a certain word meant and not being surprised when he did not know the answer.

Business was slow for her Mother. Anko ran a small cleaning business – once a week she would clean a client's house and bring home their sheets to wash and iron them immaculately. Sometimes she sent Sakura on small errands to the houses, to drop off the freshly laundered sheets and collect the minor charge that Anko billed her customers. However, Konoha was a country saving all its strength for the war that the Fourth was to lead them into with heads held high, and business was slow. More and more people found it an unaffordable expense to have their sheets cleaned for them, despite Anko's cheap rates. She grumbled about them as she folded the sparkling white cloth, using that beautiful mouth of hers to cheapen their names in the safety of her own household.

Luckily, Anko's biggest client was able to maintain her weekly launder. Dr Tsunade, the only female doctor Sakura had ever seen, and one of the richest people she could think of, lived in a huge house only a small distance away from Tengoku street. It wasn't lavish – not many could afford lavish – but it was enormous. Sakura had only seen inside once. The rooms looked empty, despite the furnishings. Space engulfed the dwelling.

Tsunade was a nice woman. She always had time to listen to Sakura and offer her the occasional tip about some aspect or other of medicine. However, sometimes she seemed so very far away to Sakura. How could _she_, little sixteen year old foster-daughter Haruno Sakura, reach such splendid heights and be such a success?

* * *

Did I mention that Sakura is a foster child?

Keep your eyes covered. Even though it seems so quiet, the shards are flying your way.

* * *

Still, Sakura enjoyed talking to Lady Tsunade (as she was known in the local area), and often ran home forgetting to pick up her Mother's payment in her hurry to look up a new medical term that the kindly blonde had offered her. She was determined to do her best and make her Mother and Father proud. What more could she do? How else could she repay their kindness?

It had been quite a while since she had seen Naruto. Since dropping the cakes she had lovingly made at his feet, Sakura had made no extra effort to meet with him. She did not know if he was frequenting the river bank, waiting for her, the ghost of a nice time in the recent past, or whether he'd stopped. She did miss him – she could not deny that she missed him – but her pride had taken a little dint and she was unable to simply let go of her anger. Besides, Naruto was a busy boy. _Juveniles _filled his days, and she was sure that he wasn't really suffering because she wasn't seeing him. In fact, he hadn't bothered to try and get in touch with her, so she knew he must be managing all right.

He had her address.

* * *

Can you see it coming toward you? Like wind, it moves with a howl, with the sheen of a knife, with the tear of a hound's jaw. The minutes slip away, wrenched by this thing called History with its cruel repetitiveness, and Time chuckles as you are thrown into the crystalline night of broken windows.

Jump forward. Crouch. Watch the young through the cracks of your safe fingers as they flounder, and the friends who try to help them.

* * *

The ninth of the month came quickly for Naruto. At least, it seemed to. Of course all the days before it dragged, almost painfully (how he _missed_ those nights at the riverbank when he let spill the secret terrors he learned of in the day – with nobody to talk to about them they seemed to strangle his heart), but the night of the ninth was swift, like the hefty swing of a pendulum, and Naruto wondered how things could have got so bad so fast.

Guilt had haunted him a little mercilessly since those twenty odd nights ago, biting him as he'd picked up the cakes Sakura had dropped at his feet, all devotion hurled into the night around them as she had stormed away. He wished he could have told her. He wished, just for one second, that she could understand, and listen, and then surely she would no longer be mad with him. He'd gone back to the riverbank the next day, wilting in the drizzle, but she had not appeared, and he decided he could not waste his life tormenting himself by the cool stream.

If she wanted him, she could find him.

She had his address.

So Naruto devoted his new found evenings to Sasuke, his filthy Red friend whose small, family run business was slowly trickling through his hands into the gutter. He called around at the tiny shop daily as he left _Juveniles _in order to check how the two brothers were doing (to see if they were still alive). Since the attack on himself and Sasuke in the street, Naruto had found life a little more difficult. Konoha, despite its size, seemed more like a miniscule community at times; whispers were shouts. After he'd been spotted trying to help a Red, he'd quickly earned a name for himself as a _Red Lover_. There were rumours he was 'sleeping with the enemy'. There were rumours he harboured them in his house.

His Fang leader at_ Juveniles _had called him in for a briefing, asking about the incident, examining the now yellow bruise on his back, and warning him where his loyalties lay (as if Naruto needed reminding of that ridiculous piece of propaganda). His classmates teased him cruelly. If he wasn't a black sheep before, he certainly was now. A few friends stuck by him (Shikamaru's casual observation that the world was falling down around their heads had followed him like his own shadow) and attempted to make life a little easier, but Naruto didn't mind.

He did not mind at all. Because he had it easy.

Comparatively.

Calling around at the Uchiha Blacksmiths nightly allowed Naruto a sort of insight into the world he hardly understood but knew he hated. For little over two hours each evening he could see the world in a different coloured tint. He saw it in Red.

Before the ascension of the Fourth – the great military leader of Konoha; the man who had lifted the ailing village from depression, the man who had made the village great again – the Uchihas had run a respectable business. In fact, Sasuke's older brother Itachi had been well known for his skill at a young age. Their venture had not flourished – given another few years of good business it might have done – but they had certainly made a respectable name for themselves as some of the best smiths in the village. Sasuke had been sent to school but learned the trade in his own time, copying his older brother and becoming particularly deft in the creation of small swords and knives. Itachi's overall work was tidier and stronger, but Sasuke had an eye for craftsmanship, particularly on and around the hilt of the weapons, that Itachi could not match. The two of them worked hard at their craft, and, when their parents were sent away from them in the early days of the Fourth's reign, they had been determined to uphold the shop their Mother and Father had poured so much love into.

Over the years, of course, any solidarity or security they may have harboured crumbled away from them like a splintering wall. Various laws and new rules had slowly entitled them to less and less from their village, gradually hemming in their rights, their lives, their freedom. The two brothers did their best; their business had not immediately suffered because of the quality goods they produced. But a little over a year ago, their scrap metal distributor had ceased trade with them, forcing Itachi to make a hurried and desperate business deal with a munitions factory across town in the western outskirts, which had its own small scrap metal department. Since then, Sasuke had been making the trip back and forth once a week, pushing his rusty old wheelbarrow along, to collect whatever scrap metal the company deemed they could afford to give them. Their charges were extortionate. The Uchiha brothers could not afford to complain.

Sasuke had, however, often grumbled in private to Naruto about the quality of the metal he lugged back and forth. The metal bore a guarantee from the owner of the munitions factory of galvanisation, but some of the few customers they had left had begun to complain of rust creeping up the hilt of the blades they bought. Bad quality bred bad business, and soon the brothers were staying afloat by the skin of their teeth, attempting to produce high quality goods with the pitiful scraps of metal they were allowed to have. They'd lost their wheelbarrow, so now Sasuke carried the deposits of metal in a bag on his back.

Naruto watched the world through Red eyes.

He had taken to buying Sasuke a sandwich, and then had added Itachi to the list too. At first it was just so the two friends could eat together, but soon he started to notice how little the brothers ate. Naruto, an orphan, deemed worthy by a decent performance in education, was paid a monthly maintenance wage for attending school (which he often damaged by his truancy), and did not pay rent on his small, government provided house. His father had been a high standing figure in the previous government and he supposed that the Fourth owed him a little. His little wage was more than enough to live on at the moment, although Naruto would never call himself well off in any way. He couldn't afford extravagant gifts or expensive luxuries – and he was hoping to start putting a little money away for the future (whatever it held). Still, he had enough to buy an extra sandwich or two (always packed with as much meat as he could afford) and pass them in to the two hardworking brothers. Most of their money disappeared into keeping the business afloat, but they barely broke even and anything more than potatoes or pea soup twice a day was opulence for them. Sasuke always seemed a little reluctant to take the food from Naruto, but Itachi, older than them both by five years, took the food graciously, even eagerly; never desperately. Despite their precarious position, the Uchiha brothers were proud people – always had been – and neither of them liked to admit they were sinking. Instead, they carried on, red eyes facing forward, and accepted, as graciously as their pride would allow them, the occasional aid of the few people left in the world who cared about their lives.

Naruto was there every night, slipping through the door of the shop just before Sasuke locked it, handing both of them a sandwich and demanding they let him come in and catch up for a while. Sasuke usually offered him a scowl, but Itachi never minded the company. Naruto would make his way up to the small flat the brothers lived in above their shop, plonk himself on the couch, and infect the place with his smile as much as he could before he left. Sometimes Itachi offered to cook them some potatoes too, but Naruto always refused outright, thinking of his own fairly full cupboards at home. The brothers' flat was dull, with only one small window to allow light in. Naruto caught himself wondering, at one point, why they hadn't been offered government provided accommodation like himself when they were orphaned, but he quickly shut himself up before he could query out loud. He didn't need to ask.

The ninth of the month was not a particularly special day. August had arrived with more rain, a little colder now, with grey, chilly skies that signalled an early winter on its way. Nothing spectacular had happened during the day – as Sasuke took a seat beside him on the hard couch in the small flat, Naruto noted aloud how grey it was outside. There was not much else to talk about.

'It's been a while since we saw the sunshine,' commented Itachi, deftly filling a small kettle with water and placing it on the stove. 'Konoha's a different place in the rain.'

Sasuke rolled his eyes. 'What are you complaining about? You're not the one trekking across town and getting soaked in it.'

His older brother grinned at him. 'But you're so much _younger_ than I am, Sasuke! Think of how the rain would wither my already aged body!'

Naruto chuckled as Sasuke muttered something under his breath. Itachi took a bite of his sandwich and smiled at Naruto.

'This is delicious. Thank you, Naruto.'

The thanks were genuine, but Naruto could see with his bright blue eyes the near-embarrassment in Itachi's face as he expressed his gratitude once more. He knew not to expect anything from Sasuke – indeed, beside him, another sandwich had already been opened and tucked into. Naruto wasn't doing it for the gratitude. He was grateful that he could help. He was grateful that he was not blind to the world rippling underneath the calm surface of his own.

They sat in silence for a while, the occasional noise of rustling paper interrupting while the brothers ate their first full meal of the day. Soon the whistle of the kettle blew, and a few minutes later the three inhabitants of the room were sipping at their hot mugs of weak tea, watching the rain outside as it knocked against the window. Sasuke kicked his shoes off onto the floor. Itachi scolded him mildly – they were a little muddy. The house was warm – warmer than most on the small street – because the heat of the fire that burned all day below kept the rooms upstairs temperate. Itachi showed Naruto a blister he had picked up by catching his thumb on a hot piece of iron. Naruto sipped his tea and commented that since Sasuke had no blisters, he must not be working hard enough.

'Shut up, loser.'

Itachi ruffled his younger brother's hair.

There was a sound outside the window.

* * *

They're outside the house. Dripping crystals of clear, weeping glass. You'll see it soon.

You'll see it now.

* * *

The noise was loud. The noise splintered and burned.

The noise was bad.

Itachi, the tallest of the three in the room, moved to the window like a shadow, peering down into the street below with narrow, cautious eyes. Sasuke and Naruto watched him, waiting, as though unfolding a letter and expecting the words to jump from the page. The sound of his breathing filled the small flat as silence crept in again from the street outside, punctuated occasionally by the noise again, sharp and without struggle. The steam from their mugs writhed into the air.

Naruto stared at Itachi's black hair, dull in the light of the room, so long that it was loosely tied back with a thin ribbon. The sleek ponytail lifted and fell at his breathing. The older boy was still for a moment more before he turned back to them calmly, red eyes looking more black than scarlet.

'Naruto,' he smiled, 'would you mind if Sasuke stayed at your house tonight? Or perhaps at a friend's?'

Naruto's hesitant nod was quickly interrupted by Sasuke's demanding voice.

'Why? What's going on?'

Another noise came from the street outside. Itachi turned back to the window. Naruto noticed the stress lines lying under his eyes as he turned.

'Take the alleys, where you can.'

Naruto could hear Sasuke's breathing. It was confused, and angry, and scared.

'Itachi, _what's going on_?'

'You don't have time to pack a bag, Sasuke,' said Itachi, putting his mug down on the windowsill. 'You're to go with Naruto until I come for you.'

Sasuke scrambled to his feet, knees cracking as he headed toward the window. His voice was hot and fought above the noise from the street. 'I'm not going _anywhere_ until you tell me what's --'

Before Sasuke could reach the tiny window, Itachi spun round and caught him firmly by the shoulders. Two pairs of red eyes met each other, and Naruto stared at them. The brothers, five years apart, were remarkably similar physically.

'You're going _now_.' Itachi's voice was crisp and smooth, without a single crack in it. There was no way Sasuke could argue back. He simply glared into his brother's face, shoulders gripped by older, stronger hands. It was as though whatever Itachi had seen outside the thin, safe pane of glass somehow slipped into Sasuke through his fingers.

'And you?'

The anger had left Sasuke's voice.

Itachi turned his brother around to face Naruto (tense and ready to move on the couch) once more.

'I'll be fine. Hurry up.'

Without another word, Sasuke slipped on his shoes, dry mud flaking off onto the stony floor. Naruto stood, heart slamming against his chest, throat dry despite the tea he had sipped only moments ago. The second Sasuke had tied the last knot in his laces, Naruto opened the door, beckoning to the stairs leading down into the shop below. Sasuke followed him quickly, pausing at the door.

He glanced back into the small, warm flat one more time. Itachi was looking at him, an expression upon his face that Sasuke had never seen before. He wanted to say something, but out of the thousands of words he knew, none of them seemed to settle on his tongue. He just looked at his older brother, breathing, watching his face, until Naruto's hand grabbed the back of his shirt and ripped him away.

Sasuke never saw his home again.

* * *

They will plunge into it now. Entirely unprepared. Destinies are tearing apart like stems wrenched up from the ground, cut into a million pieces by the glass of one single night.

* * *

Sasuke felt himself turning whiter as Naruto edged out into the street. Naruto had insisted he go first through some notion that he was safer. He was probably right to do so.

The noises that had frightened his brother so much in the flat above were terrifyingly loud and brutal down on the ground level. They were the sounds of utter and complete chaos. Weeping. Screaming. Gunshots. All accompanied by the sickeningly sweet sound of glass glittering to the floor. Over and over.

Sasuke waited just behind the door of his shop while Naruto poked himself into the outside world, watching his blue eyes widen in horror at the scene around him. He could feel his body trembling with fear and anticipation. Cold sweat trickled down his back. He knew his red eyes would glow the moment he stepped outside.

'They're…' Naruto's voice was shaking. 'It's _Fang_. They're wrecking the entire street.'

Sasuke gripped himself and forced his head out into the rain.

Numerous members of _Fang_ (the Fourth's Praetorian Guard) were loose on the street. Sasuke had only ever seen them in strict regiment, marching in set form with their pristine collars and spangling adornments. Never had he seen them so out of control. Their uniforms were undone at the neck and dirty. They were rampaging through the street, long metal bars and clubs in their hands, and rifles at their waists. With their hands they destroyed shops, houses – anything a Red might have worked hard for. With the weapons at their waists, they scared the inhabitants of the destruction, or simply added them to the burning pile of devastation smoking up into the sky. Fires glimmered over the rooftops, announcing the presence of violence in every street. Worse still, Leaf civilians had joined in and were gathering in hungry crowds, eyes mad for the smoke and the terror and the shattered glass that lay dying on the wet ground.

Aware of the giveaway glimmer cast by his own eyes in the dark, Sasuke pulled himself back inside, breath suddenly heavy and difficult. Naruto turned to him, hair matted by the rain, his face frightened and ashamed.

'They're arresting people. We have to go.'

Sasuke knew that – of course he knew that – but felt completely defenceless against the mob. The men. The fire. The glass. Before Naruto could pull him out into the street, Sasuke darted over to a small table in the shop and snatched up two small daggers. He would have taken the sledge hammer but it was too big and would never escape the eyes of the _Fang_.

He handed a dagger to Naruto.

'Just in case.'

Naruto nodded, slipping the dagger into a pocket in his jacket.

'Where's the nearest alleyway?'

Sasuke immediately indicated west with his head. 'Left out the front door. Call it twenty yards.'

They instantly swept out of the doorway, hoping their shoes made little sound on the floor. The stench of smoke and bloodshed assailed their nostrils, and, despite the rain, they could feel the heat of the fires nearby stalking the night. Sasuke kept his head down and his eyes narrowed, simply trying to follow Naruto's back with his gaze. The less he saw of everything around him, the less chance everything around him had of taking notice. He was only in a loose shirt and his arms were bare and pale in the darkness.

Naruto suddenly jerked to the left and Sasuke followed hastily, diving into the almost black alleyway. The two paused momentarily while Naruto glanced down the long stretch of shadow, trying his best to make out anybody's presence.

'I can't see anybody.'

Sasuke pitied the blond. His guilt about Naruto's involvement in his life had been growing and growing over the past days and weeks, but tonight it reached an uneasy peak. Naruto was putting his own life at risk. Without even batting an eye.

'I live on the west side of the village,' Naruto broke into his thoughts, 'so we've got a long run. Are you ok?'

Instinct and rivalry immediately kicked back into Sasuke, and he wiped the rainwater out of his eyes. 'Of course.'

They took off again, two hunted silhouettes in the bleak, wet night.

* * *

Sakura slept in her bed, exhausted after a late night of studying. Her pretty green eyes lay still behind her thick eyelashes, and her soft hair was strewn over her face. She had never looked so peaceful.

* * *

She is an angel, unaware of the devils around her. She is a growing flower, distanced from the infected soil at her feet.

She is a rock jutting out in a sea storm. She is the hope that the drowning will cling to.

She will soon be awoken, this princess, by a knock on the door.

* * *

Twenty minutes of fear and hard running had depleted most of the boys' energy, so they paused for a serious break. The shadows on the streets were licked by the bright flames of numerous fires and so there were very few places for Naruto and Sasuke to legitimately hide. Their feet, despite being clothed by shoes, were ripped to shreds by the sharp teeth of the glass they raced over. The rain was heavy. The night was both cold and hot. They hid in some large bushes at the edge of a park, where the scent of the wet grass did its best to drown out the smell of the carnage plaguing the air. Lying on the sodden floor, chest heaving, frantically attempting to ignore the near hysterical beating of his heart, Sasuke pushed the images of still bodies littering the pavements to the back of his mind. Beside him, Naruto swept his hair out of his eyes, leaving trickles of rainwater stalking down his face.

'We're not too far away.'

Sasuke could do nothing but nod, limbs trembling under the strain and adrenaline. He waited as patiently as he could for his breathing to attempt to return to normal. In their relative safe haven, Sasuke pleaded with his thoughts not to wander back to Itachi, but they mocked him. He was terrified that everything they had worked so hard to gain would be lost. He was terrified that his brother might die.

'Don't think about him,' Naruto woke him from his thoughts, reading his mind. 'He'll be all right.'

Sasuke was not convinced, but was suddenly forced to focus on the present situation.

A _Fang_ guard stumbled into the bushes.

He stared at them both for a moment, sweat and rain mixed together on his brow. He was roughly thirty, with a shock of dark hair and thin, dry looking lips. Sasuke's heart sank when he whipped out a torch.

'I can tell you're a Red without even using this!' he said. He didn't sound as mean as he looked, but that was no comfort to Sasuke. He could feel Naruto tensing up next to him. 'But I do love to see that grubby glow in your eyes before I crush you like the worm you are…'

On flipped the torch, right in his eyes, and Sasuke scrambled backwards, one hand flying to his face to block out the searing light. He was a rat trapped in a corner. He was a fox surrounded by the hounds. Nerves ground up inside him like a metal coil, and blindly, desperately, he reached for the dagger in his pocket.

The light suddenly wrenched away from his eyes, and Sasuke was left in complete darkness while his vision frenetically tried to readjust. He couldn't focus his thoughts. He couldn't hear anything. The world disappeared.

He blinked and he was running, rain hard in his face, Naruto's hand snapped firmly around his wrist. The guard was gone. The night was a dark, cold blanket, and the sounds of chaos seemed to be fading into the distance.

Sasuke tried to shake his mind into action. 'What happened?'

Naruto kept running and didn't turn his face to reply. 'You lost it. Stay with me. We're almost there.'

Sasuke, red eyes screaming left and right, caught sight of his own dagger in Naruto's hand. As frightened and confused and useless as he felt, he could figure out what had happened.

The street they were on was quiet. From the look of the buildings (still intact), Sasuke imagined that very few Reds had populated the area. The pavements were free of glass – only pools of rain glittered in the gutters. He could still smell fire in the air.

He caught sight of a street name.

_Tengoku_.

Heaven.

Sasuke glared at the word, jealous of its security, as Naruto led him down the street towards his own house.

* * *

The knock jostled Sakura out of her sleep. Her warm duvet suddenly seemed confusing and easy to get lost in. She slipped from the bed, toes freezing in the air. There were sounds from the hallway. She didn't dare light a candle.

Peering down into the hall she could see the familiar shape of her Father, his silver hair outlined against the pale moonlight falling into the hall in bits. Rain crept in from the night and pattered her Father's face. He was talking to someone.

With red eyes.

* * *

Destiny plays tricks on us all. The last thing Hatake Kakashi has ever expected to see at his door is the ghost of the past. Still, on this night, in the relentless, weeping rain, with the crying, shattered windows, expectations are the last thing anybody can cling to.

* * *

Sakura couldn't quite hear the conversation. She could tell, however, that it was laden with heavy, uncertain pauses. Her Father didn't sound like he normally did. He sounded lost.

She stared at the red eyes in the darkness, and wondered if the whole world was falling down on her house.

* * *

Naruto didn't know what to do. His house wasn't safe enough – that thought had hit him the moment he'd seen the _Fang_ singling out Red properties and civilians. He'd been associated with Reds, by rumour, too recently. He would be surprised if his house was still in one piece. The _Fang_ did their work regardless of rumour or fact. There was no logic left any longer.

So he'd pushed himself along, half dragging Sasuke behind him, trying to grit his teeth and not think about the dreadful pain in his feet or the burning ache in his lungs. His mind was foggy in the blackness of the night, but his sole concern was the friend stumbling along with an invisible noose around his neck. Somehow, Sasuke had become his responsibility. Itachi had made the request politely, with a smile, but Naruto, finely tuned, could not ignore the anxiety in his quiet voice.

He _had_ to help Sasuke.

His mind scanned his scarce options fiercely. There was not much to scan. Sasuke could not stay on the street. He could not stay in his own home. He could not stay in Naruto's home.

He could only think of one place right now.

One man.

One friend.

* * *

Kakashi was hurtled back into the past at the sight of the black haired young man before him. To the first war. To the mud, and the searing loss, and the sacrifice of a long dear companion.

His fists were shaking.

'What do you need?'

He could hardly get the words out. He was wrapped up in the sounds and smells and terrible fears of days lost to history.

* * *

'What do you need?'

Sasuke regarded the man before him warily, wearily. His body was soaked. His mind was numb. He'd seen too much. Where was his brother?

Naruto did the talking. 'A place to hide. Just for a few days. Maybe a little longer.'

* * *

'And what about you?'

'I'll be all right', he replied, injecting as much assurance into his weary voice as he could. He knew he looked a state. He knew he was almost begging.

* * *

'I have somewhere to go.'

Naruto glanced up and down the street, panic setting in as the sounds of chanting and anger moved a little closer in the distance.

'Will you do it?'

* * *

Kakashi watched the Red at his door. How could he refuse this face? How could he destroy this boy's hope?

'Father?'

Sakura's voice echoed down the stairs. She was confused. She was scared.

'Of course,' whispered Kakashi, trying to find himself in the presence of this bold, soaked, innocent boy. 'I'll do it.'

* * *

'Thank you,' Naruto said with a deep bow. Sasuke dropped his head in gratitude, in embarrassment. He didn't even _know_ this man. Naruto had pulled him along a street named _Heaven_, and suddenly they were at this house, still fearful of the brutality in the distance, dripping wet and sweating and smeared with mud and leaves and terror.

Naruto had called him a friend. Naruto had called him someone he could trust.

The blond, fatigued and needlessly at risk, stepped away, promising Sasuke he would call back in a few days. Sasuke was pulled indoors by warm hands and spiky hair. He felt no safer. Weariness smothered his shoulders. He paused, and glanced back at Naruto in time to catch him mouth his thanks before the door closed and locked the outside world away.

'_Thank you, Shikamaru_.'

* * *

Kakashi made the deal quickly. Small, short words could not be lost in the rain. The dreadful night bayed at the door. The Red stood in the hall, dripping onto the floor. Sakura watched from above.

This was not about debt. It was not about the past, and what he owed, and what he'd lost. It was about this boy, and his terrible story, and the parents stolen from him, and the brother missing in the night.

'I'll find him,' he said, 'and give him your address. I don't know if he'll come. But if he does…'

'Sasuke will be safe here.' Kakashi felt the promise lock itself in the air. There was no handshake. There was no written bargain. Kakashi was a man of his word.

When Sasuke arrived, Kakashi would care for him like a son.

He would do the same for his gentle older brother, if he ever came back. But as soon as the deal was made, Itachi Uchiha, a rat in the rain, slunk into the shadows, hunted like a murderer.

The sacrificial lamb was washed away from _Tengoku _street with the comfort of a promise in his ears. Away from safety. Away from Kakashi.

Into the wilderness.

* * *

Sakura watched the man with the red eyes drift into the night. She wondered what he was doing out in the bitter gloom. She wondered what he was doing with her Father.

She had a feeling she was tipping over the edge, plunging into a world of darkness and rain and glowing, frightened eyes. And she knew she would not be able to clamber back out.

* * *


	5. Howl

**Red**

**Chapter Four; Howl.**

**

* * *

  
**

Hatake Kakashi is like a patchwork quilt.

That is not to say he is a man of many colours. His colours are easy to read. His exterior is dented and cheap looking, but picking away reveals a royal silver. It comes through in his hair. It comes through in his eyes, even though they're brown. It is in the sand of his voice, because sand makes glass, and glass makes any reflection silver. That is his outside. His inside – his heart – is red; deep, the kind a person can sink in.

No, his colours are easy to read. A woman like Anko is far more mysterious and difficult to place on the spectrum. However, Kakashi is like patchwork because he is sewed together in all different places – a man of memories. Every second in his life is tacked on somewhere to the quilt. Some memories are loosely fixed, and sometimes the threads wear down and the moments tumble away. Sometimes tiny, shouting scraps of material disappear into the ground, never to be looked on again.

Some are double stitched. Some of his memories latch on like a leech, threads never to wear, never to break. Some memories are darned so tightly about his chest that at times Kakashi feels he will crumble into them, his body collapsing inwards and dissolving into the thirsty strands. They will drink him up. They will swallow him whole.

No matter where he turns, no matter how he twists his body, there are some patches of his life, some memories on the quilt, that Hatake Kakashi will never be able to escape.

* * *

'Oh, it's quite all right. They've been fined for it. What else should they expect? I trod on glass _twice_ this morning, and the soles of my shoes are completely ruined.'

It wasn't the response she was expecting, but Sakura really should have known better. She _was_ talking to Yamanaka Ino.

'My mother tells me she saw a whole _crate_ of eggs being thrown to the ground! And piles of flour, just burning in the street! Really, we can't expect anything less.'

A weary crack of sunshine had managed to stumble through the ever-present clouds, and it fingered the pavement unsteadily, as if remembering the feel of the earth. Sakura and Ino were walking to the local train station from _Hatchlings_ with their jackets tied around their shoulders loosely, allowing the weather to hesitantly caress their skin. Sakura's bag was heavy and both of her hands were wrapped about the straps, almost pleading with it to allow her some respite.

The damage of the previous evening hadn't been too bad along _Tengoku _street, but walking into the centre of town, to _Hatchlings_, revealed the rotting skeletons of a night of fury and fire. Damage to shops and houses was shocking. Windows clung to their frames desperately, their jagged edges almost feral and frightening, as though daring anybody to come any closer. Some small embers still burned in exhausted attempts to tell passerbys of the night's activities. Occasionally Sakura had spotted some dry patches of blood not yet been scrubbed from the pavement.

Most striking, however, was the change in attitude. Sakura did not speak to anybody else on her way to _Hatchlings, _but she could immediately sense an unusual thickness in the air. There were _Fang_ guards, their brown uniforms spotless in the daylight, posted at each street corner, and some patrolled, pacing like caged animals, knuckles hackling for a body to pummel. There was the occasional sound of a struggle, but it always seemed short lived, and Sakura never saw any of the action.

The day at _Hatchlings_ passed quickly but not without its whispers. Rumours that the Fourth's Great War had started were swiftly rubbished by their teachers, and by lunchtime it had been explained to them that the Fourth had authorised the arrest of all internal enemies of the Leaf Village. Sakura heard the words of her teacher but did not understand them. All she could think of were the red eyes at her door last night. Her Father had dismissed her. Sent her back to bed. Crept into the living room and shut himself off. She was left to deal with her own thoughts. Her teacher insisted that only the guilty had been targeted. Only those who deserved punishment would receive it. The Fourth had given _Fang_ the order to continue to arrest and disarm any enemies of the state until the village was safe from internal collapse.

Sakura was not reassured in the slightest.

Walking along after _Hatchlings_ with Ino had made her prickly and observant. While Ino chattered about the state of her shoes and how the racket in the early hours had woken her up a number of times, Sakura took in the ruined windows and wondered how on earth her small village had been able to house so many guilty agents. She pondered why the simple act of 'arrest' had spiralled into such damage to the once beautiful landscape. She listened to her Father's voice and began to question the things she saw around her, even though none of it made much sense.

_Hatchlings_ was based near a train station, and, when the weather was nice, it was almost traditional for Sakura and her friends to meet there and discuss the day's happenings at four o' clock. Despite the feeble sun, comparatively today was an excellent day for such an activity, and so Sakura was not surprised to find another friend, Hinata, waiting for them at the top of the slope leading up to the tracks.

Konoha Station was based on a grassy hill in the centre of the village. In days gone by, Sakura and her Father had settled themselves a little way away from the rickety wooden tracks and watched the steam of the approaching trains whistle up into the blue sky. The tracks stretched far away, skimming the western half of the village but running primarily through the poorer eastern side. She liked the back and forth racket of the rocking train carriages as they approached or pulled away, and had taken to watching the windows of the carts as they tugged by to see the faces of the travellers inside. As time slipped by – as her Father grew more busy with his bookshop – Sakura had taken her friends there, and they had grown up in the sunlight, watching the giant brown inhabitants of the station trundling to and fro with their loads. In the glaring sun, the windows once flashed like diamonds as they were whisked past, but now, as Sakura climbed the hill, she imagined the windows to look more like wet stains, wiped over the wood of the train by a messy hand, clammy and fleeting.

Hinata was waiting at the top of the hill. Her long, thick hair was swelling gently in the breeze that lingered in the wake of a train just arriving. Ino, blond and rambunctious as always, let out a yell and waved, drawing Hinata's attention.

'Hinata! You're early!'

The shy girl turned to them, pale eyes bright in the sun. 'H-hello, Ino, Sakura.'

Hinata had a stutter. It wasn't a genetic impediment – she was just a consistently nervous person. It made sense for her to have a loud, sparkling friend like Ino and a gently encouraging one like Sakura. They brought (dragged) her out of her shell. They had convinced her to grow her hair, which had always been chopped into a boyish bob when she was a child. Hinata was too delicate for such a rough cut. She was a quiet, dark beauty, who said little and thought much.

The cool wind tugged at their brown skirts as Ino and Sakura made their way to the top of the hill where they could overlook the tracks. Sakura instinctively loosened her tie and unbuttoned the collar of her crisp white shirt. Her uniform felt oppressive.

The noise of the train's arrival was almost drowned out by a sort of nervous, humdrumming chatter on the rickety platform. It was usually sparsely populated at this time of the day and got much busier just as the girls were leaving. However today the platform was heaving with all sorts of people – elderly people with bent backs, children with stretched arms, and adults with a sort of harried look on their faces who seemed to pin the crowd together like a needle through cloth. There was an uneasy bustle about them, and Sakura couldn't stop staring at their thick coats and small suitcases. Where were they all going?

'They're all leaving,' said Hinata as she turned back to the crowd, grey eyes scanning gently. 'It's l-like they're evacuating the village.'

'What for?' asked Ino with confidence, her golden hair shining starkly in the weak sunlight. 'What's going on?'

Sakura shook her head. She did not know. Today was a strange day. It felt like the beginning of something enormous. She was teetering on the edge of history, she believed, but could not foresee the depth of the fall awaiting her. Her opal eyes fastened onto a small boy wearing an oversized jacket and a cloth cap over his tousled black hair. His legs were long and skinny and his trousers too short. He clung to the hand of a nearby adult with a stubborn look upon his face as he glared at the approaching train.

Fixated as she was, Sakura would have gladly watched the boy longer, stepping closer to him for a better look, taking in his every detail, memorising the shape and curve of his small nose and slightly pointed ears, but her musings were cut candidly short as she bumped straight into a tall figure in a coat.

'Oh!' She scrambled backwards as the figure regained balance. 'I'm sorry – I didn't see where…'

It was the man she had seen at her door. The man in the night.

The man with the red eyes.

She stopped and held herself completely still, wide-eyed gaze bonded to his face. She took in the paleness of his skin and the way his hair framed his cheeks, uncut and wild. He stared at her with scarlet irises, unmoving for a moment, before they were both jostled back to reality by the doors of the train creaking open at the edge of the platform.

'Sakura.'

The man broke her gaze and moved like water, long limbs slipping through the beleaguered crowd and taking him swiftly to a fast filling carriage. He carried a small, light brown suitcase, battered at the edges yet sturdy enough, and wore a tatty-looking trilby hat that looked as though it used to be black but had faded to a washy grey.

'Sakura…'

Ino's voice did little to shift Sakura's focus from the man as he disappeared into the carriage.

'Sakura!'

She turned back to her friend, quickly rubbing the feeling that she had just woken up from her eyes. 'What is it, Ino?!'

'Don't stare at it!' Ino snapped, hands balanced on her slender hips. 'They can be awfully aggressive, you know!'

Sakura blinked unsteadily. 'Don't stare at what?'

Ino's pretty blond face scrunched up, and she nodded sharply toward the carriage the man had disappeared into.

'That Red! Don't stare at it! You don't know what it might do!'

Sakura turned back to the carriage, its wet wiped windows already steaming up from the sheer volume of travellers cramming into the compartment.

'_A Red…'_

She could hear Hinata reprimanding Ino for something or other but really didn't pay attention. All she could see was one particular window of the carriage. One particular man.

His eyes seemed brighter than all the others. More bold and bloody. She hadn't even known the rest of them were Reds on the platform – their eyes had gone unnoticed by her. But she could see his eyes through the cloud on the window of the carriage. She could see where he sat. She could see that he was paler than the steam fogging up the glass.

The window suddenly cleared a little, and Sakura could make out the man cleaning the glass with a slender hand. His face appeared in the impromptu gap and his eyes seemed to scan left and right as though looking for somebody on the platform. Sakura looked away, not wanting this man to whom she felt she bore some connection to think she was being impolite. She watched her feet, and noticed more and more people crowding onto the train from the corner of her eye.

When she looked up, he was staring at her. The man was staring at her. His eyes would not leave her own. She could not look away.

'_Think about it_,' her Father had said. His voice echoed with premonition. _'Think about it._'

She boldly stared back, and the wind blew her rosy hair into her eyes as she obstinately bit her lip. She needed a decision. She would listen to this man. He would help her discover herself.

He helped.

He tipped his hat to her. Raised it upwards with his thumb and fingers.

Startled, Sakura blinked, and when her eyes found him again, the man with the black hair and eyes the colour of blood was _smiling_ at her.

Smiling.

It was honest. It was warm. There was no insincerity or anger or bitterness or irony in his face. It was a true, genuine smile.

It was nice.

'_Think about it._'

Her heart was suddenly speaking to her, fighting back against the snake propaganda bleeding into her body from the air around them. Her mind was suddenly slipping away from all she'd learned and all she'd excelled at and studied. Her nursing oath. _'Above all, do no harm to anyone'_. His smile, soft and slipping away as the train pulled off, spoke to her, bred steel in her bones, planted resolve in her soul.

'Where are they all going?' she heard Ino say in her sharp voice. 'Are they getting special treatment? How did they all hire that train just for themselves?!'

Sakura did not need to speak, for Hinata was quicker.

'That train,' she said, her stutter disappearing with the vehicle, 'leads to the Hidden Cloud Village. Those people are escaping from the Leaf.'

Ino scowled. 'Well that's their loss. This village will be better off without them.'

Sakura bit her tongue. Hid her heart. Buried her thoughts of the man with Red eyes and tried not to wonder what type of world he was heading for.

* * *

Kakashi sank into the comfiest chair in his living room and let out a sigh. His wife had crept in earlier to give him a little soup for lunch but he hadn't wanted it. He hadn't come to bed last night, but there were times (that she had, over the years, come to recognise) where he needed to be alone. Lost amongst his quilted memories. Drowning until he remembered how to swim again.

So she left him in there, tumbling into the past, and focused on her work. Anko was a woman who needed to be kept busy. She had been raised in a hectic household and even when she sat down to eat with her family her feet tapped frantically against the tiled kitchen floor. She was a woman bursting with vivacious energy and was only truly happy when she was deep within a task.

Husband locked away, she cleaned. Their house was small and contained many corners that gave shelter to relentless communities of dust. Furthermore, she'd been busy with Doctor Tsunade's laundry earlier in the week and hadn't had much chance to stay on top of her own housework. Sakura wasn't a messy daughter but she needed feeding when she got in from _Hatchlings_, and Kakashi often didn't get in until late from his bookshop, so she would be busy in the kitchen till darkness had well and truly fallen on some nights.

Today, however, she had to prepare a meal earlier. Sakura had informed her (at short notice, of course) that she would be going out in the evening. There was a local book burning a few streets down, and the community tended to gather at them. No doubt Sakura wanted to catch up with her friends and enjoy the social bustle of it all. Anko had doubts that Sakura harboured any serious _anti-rouge _sentiments.

She was cleaning one particularly stubborn corner of the basement when she heard the front door slam. This was (as expected) followed by two small thuds as Sakura took off each of her shoes and flung them onto the floor in a hurry.

'Tidy them up, Pig!'

She never winced at the brashness of her own voice. She had learned to live with it.

The sound of Sakura stopping and stomping back to pick up her discarded shoes made Anko smile. Whatever hurry her daughter was in, she always had time to let her mother know how annoying her requests were.

To Kakashi, the thud of the shoes was the howl of gunfire. The slam of the door was the clout of a body rolling onto the muddy earth. The footsteps of his daughter were the harried, stumbling footsteps of men on the field, blinded and powerless and fragile.

Kakashi had lived a boy's life on the battlefield.

He was living it again now.

* * *

'_Do you ever think there will be a time when there's no war?'_

'_No. War is essential. War is the way we live our lives. War is how we protect ourselves.'_

'_From what?'_

'_From the lives that we don't understand. From our own fear. From us.'_

'_Pretty deep for a kid.'_

'_Nothing shallow about where we're standing now, Obito.'_

'_I suppose you're right, Kakashi. In the end, I suppose you're right.'_

_

* * *

  
_

The area behind Kakashi's eye patch began to burn, and he wasn't sure whether it was with smoke from the field or with tears.

It was new. And he couldn't see much out of it, and it was easier to just cover it with a patch for now. They said.

He lay on a dark bed, in a dark room. There was a throbbing across the left side of his face. He had nowhere special to be. Nothing exciting to do.

The excitement died covering the blast of a grenade. Blazing fire. Scorching calls for help.

Pain beyond anything he knew.

* * *

Sakura wolfed her tea eagerly, unaware that she'd spilled some of the soup on the tablecloth. Her mother eyed her with a wary gaze, simultaneously wringing out a dishcloth over the small sink.

'Why are you in such a hurry, Pig?'

Sakura replied between torn off mouthfuls of bread.

'I'm meeting Ino and Hinata in a bit. I already told you.'

Anko slapped the dishcloth down onto the work counter and began to scrub. Gradually the smell of mild disinfectant crowded the kitchen.

'Where's Father?'

The disinfectant ran over the woman's knuckles. She rubbed it off and continued to wipe at the counter. The noise of Sakura's spoon clattering into the bowl echoed through the kitchen.

'He's in the living room,' Anko replied quietly. Sternly. 'Don't disturb him.'

Sakura swallowed her last mouthful. 'Why? He'll miss the book burning!'

She could have shouted. It was natural to slender, hardened Anko to raise her voice at any time. Her throat was made of gravel. Her eyes were iron.

'He'll be along later, Sakura,' she replied softly, wringing out the dishcloth one more time and dropping it into the sink, 'if he feels like it. You know your Father; he's never on time.'

Sakura plonked her plate into the sink and looked up at the taller woman.

'There are more important things, sometimes, than being on time. Aren't there?'

Staring down at her daughter, fostered years ago, Anko remembered a smaller face. Bigger, rounder eyes. More fear. Less confidence.

She scowled, feeling her way back into her character.

'Yes, Pig. Now take that forehead of yours and sod off. Do you think I have time to stand around here talking to you all night?'

Sakura fled the kitchen before her Mother's snapping could turn into a tirade. Anko smiled.

She was getting soft.

* * *

The book burning was due to start at seven o'clock. Sakura was there by half past six, united with her friends and chatting away while a couple of uniformed _Fang_ guards made a clumsy pile of logs and tinder in the middle of the wide street.

Ino had in her arms an impressive stack of books ready for the fire. Her parents hadn't suffered as badly as Sakura's own in the chilly economic climate and they had some excess literature they didn't mind her disposing of. Gracious as always, Ino offered both Sakura and Hinata a book to throw in so they didn't feel as though they were missing out. Hinata declined with a smile, but Sakura took one, as she knew the moment the book hit the flames she would revel in the beautiful patterns that emerged, dancing in a myriad of red and gold.

Sakura looked down at the book in her hands. It was slim, with an almost empty white front cover. The black title was stark. The text was thick. She did not know the author.

She opened the book.

'_I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked…'_

She closed the book. She was distracted by the sounds and the heat and the bustle.

Naruto.

He was opposite her, across the pile of rubble and wood, blond hair ridiculously obvious in the fast thickening dark. He hadn't seen her. He was talking, quietly, to another boy; tall and quite slender, with dark hair.

The _Fang_ lighting up the fire stole her attention from him and she was suddenly enjoying herself, allowing the heat of the steadily growing flames to glow against the skin on her face. A sizeable crowd had gathered, armed with various books and publications, cast red and black in the light of the blaze.

Sakura didn't really understand the purpose of the book burnings. She could remember the first one she'd attended, and, through the astonishment and the thrill and the muffled chanting, the tall shape of her Father stood silhouetted against the event. He hadn't brought any books. Sakura imagined he welcomed the burnings – after all, he ran a bookshop, and if people needed books to burn, where else could they get them? The flames had grown smaller since then – three years had graced Sakura with long legs – but the excitement of the community coming together had never really worn off. She loved the feel of the warmth on her face. She loved the idea of returning the words in the books to the air, where they were originally plucked from.

'_holy the unknown buggered and suffering beggars holy the hideous human angels!'_

The book had fallen open in her hand. She glanced down at it, begging herself to be patient, begging the words to wait a little longer, till the flames were higher, before they could be restored to their place in the sky.

Through the crowd, Sakura looked for Naruto, ignoring Ino's excited cheering as the _Fang_ fanned the fire. She could only see him in slithers, every now and then. His face was serious. She was not used to it.

He flickered away and she was faced once more with licking, emergent flame, brown logs slowly sinking into black as they crackled away at the base. Ino couldn't wait, and, despite Hinata's protestation, began to fling pages of her books into the fire, tearing pages out ferociously and watching them crumble into ash with a righteous sort of contentment on her face.

'_burned alive in their innocent flannel suits…'_

Why did the book keep falling open in her hand? Sakura examined it briefly; noted its lack of punctuation and its strange format. She didn't really understand what the words meant. Singularly, of course, they had meaning, but grouped together they were nothing but tiny images; meaningless, impossible. She slapped the book shut again with a quick movement of her hand and attempted to focus on the world around her.

More and more books were tossed onto the crunching, rustling inferno. The street was lit up, cast into glorious, shimmering shadow and vibrant scarlet and gold. The eyes of the buildings were wide with anticipation and the sheen of the heat.

As she took in the growing crowd gathering around the fire, Sakura was caught in a sheer juxtaposition. One eye clearly saw the regal blaze before her, eating into the night with a splendid hunger.

The other saw the man at the train station. And the boy in the cap.

'_Filthy Reds!'_

And the harassed, crowded platform.

'_Burn! Burn, you thieving bastards!'_

And the train with the steamed up windows.

_'BURN!!!'_

Sakura tore her eyes away from the two scenes and paused a moment to listen to the crowd around her. Ino, closest, was loudest; her words bit through the air. Hinata watched on in her shy way, deep, almost indigo-black hair glimmering in the reflection of the fire.

What did Reds have to do with any of this?

Her Father, tall and shadowy, had arrived, long legs stretching over the flames.

He went to Naruto.

Confused, not least by the shouting and the thick smoke beginning to swirl about her body, Sakura watched her Father as he spoke to Naruto and the dark haired boy. She couldn't hear over the crackle of the flames and the hysteria of the crowd, but the way he held his body, stiff and wary, told her he was speaking quietly. He clearly did not want to be overheard.

Father passed Naruto a book. It was large, and thick, and, unlike the title of her own book, ripe for burning, Sakura was interested in the title of this one.

_My Labour._

It was the Fourth's book. He had written it in prison, years ago. She'd read the occasional snippet in her Literature class at _Hatchlings_ but had never really gotten into it. Strange as it sounded, she preferred her medical textbook.

Why was her Father giving Naruto a copy of _My Labour?_

The dark haired boy said something to her Father that she couldn't hear or understand. The silver-haired man nodded casually, planting his hands in his pockets.

'Is everything okay, Sakura?'

It was Hinata. She was difficult to pick up in the frenzy of the crowd. Sakura nodded, keeping her eyes on her Father.

'Who's that with Naruto, Hinata? Do you know?'

Hinata glanced across the steepening fire, brushing her fringe out of her eyes and tiptoeing to gain the best view. Sakura, on edge, saw Hinata's eyes widen for a moment before she nodded nervously.

'That's N-Nara Shikamaru. He's a friend of my cousin's. I've not spoken to him m-much but he seems nice en-nough.'

Sakura stared at the boy through the fire. He was a little taller than Naruto, with long hair, yanked back into a spiky ponytail.

'Do you know of any reason why he might be speaking to my Father?' she said to Hinata, training her eyes on the boy. Hinata instantly shook her head.

'N-No! I don't—I mean—I don't know _why_ he's speaking to your Father, S-Sakura!'

Perturbed by Hinata's jittery manner, Sakura finally removed her eyes from the suspicious men and concentrated on the book burning. The flames of the paper-fuelled fire were roaring into the night, and smoke twisted upwards like poison laced into a drink. Sakura lifted her face into it, letting her hair fall back, reminiscing over the feeling that she was on the edge of something monumental. That she was instrumental. That time as she knew it was depleting, and soon a new time would begin.

She suddenly understood the world around her. Without asking, or questioning, or even trying to work it out.

They were burning books written by Reds. Nobody else.

Sakura glanced at the book in her hand. She opened it up. She searched the words.

'_the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window…'_

She closed her eyes. The mystery of the night escaped her. What her Father was doing. What Naruto was doing. Hinata's unusually pronounced nerves.

All that mattered was the book in her hand.

The man who wrote it. Where was he? Alive? Persecuted?

'_who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation…'_

And his mother? Sister? Brother? Lover?

'_a hopeful little bit of hallucination…'_

How could she release these words into nothingness? How could she burn them into anger? She scoffed at her earlier naïveté, her belief that burning these words was an act of goodness, of poetry, or literary justice.

It was segregation. It was taking a knife to a culture for nothing. It was destroying the last words of innocents.

Sakura looked up. Met her Father's gaze for just a second.

Threw the book into the fire.

'_Keep your thoughts to yourself. Don't change a thing. Do you understand?'_

Her green eyes watched it burn, full of the man on the platform and his gentle smile. She read the words as they twisted, agonised, in the wrath of the flames, their very existence being carved into the blackness of the night by the demon orange licks.

'_crowned with flame under the tubercular sky…'_

Crowned with flame, Sakura understood.

Sakura finally understood.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the late update everybody. I had a job interview today (Tuesday) and was preparing for it all of yesterday. By way of apology, I shall give you a sneak peak of the next chapter:

_'If they come for me, there's nothing you can do.'_

_What was she doing? Her life was at stake. Her very presence in this tiny little attic, full of rotten timber and shaky rafters, forced her into a category of people she never thought she would join._

_Criminals._

_Her breath caught in her throat. The complications of the situation, the danger, the risk of it all going wrong, suddenly felt dry and real. What happened if she were to be caught? What of her mother, and sister, and friends?_

_What of this man?_

_The flames of the book-burning were hotter, molten daggers stabbing at her heels. The ash was bone. The paper was skin._

_The smoke was tears. Jet tears of chalky grey-wash._

_She felt sorry for the men turned to rats. She felt sorry for their ruby eyes._

_'We won't…' her voice was as thin as the paper they'd burned. 'We won't… l-let them… It will __never come to that!'_

See you in two weeks! Sherbet


	6. Secrets

**A/N**

**Again thanks to Janine for the majorly amazing edit!**

**

* * *

  
**

**Red Chapter Five; Secrets**

**

* * *

  
**

They stand together, gazing into the ashes of a night of catharsis. Not a sliver of flame remains as a token of the furious burn. The book Sakura threw into the fire is dead.

Father holds her hand. His grip is cool and relaxing in the face of the hot grey remnants. Sakura cannot see his good eye – all she can see of his face is a grim slash of a mouth and a sterile eye patch.

'All those books,' he says, voice seeming small, dampened out by the weak spirals of smoke around them. 'All those books turned to nothing. All that work thrown into the air.'

She understands. Father loves books. His bookshop is his second home. He is a man who appreciates the texture of the ink. He likes to thumb the edges of the pages.

'I get the feeling,' responds Sakura, committing to memory the smell of the remains, the sickly way it tickles her nose, 'that this isn't the worst of it.'

Father looks uncomfortable. Like he knows what's coming. Like he can see the future.

* * *

He forgets himself! Of course he can see the future!

* * *

'You must promise me something, Sakura.'

That tone again. That serious, heavier than heavy lacing to it. Without realising it, Sakura holds her breath.

How has she matured so quickly? Kakashi cannot understand it. His daughter has such beautiful eyes – eyes that are creeping open to allow the world in. He hopes they never become tainted. He hopes she never sees what he has seen.

(What he still sees.)

He is too tall. The street around them is quiet; they have come out just before the shreds of dawn begin to pierce through the smoke. The August mornings are delayed and lacklustre, pushed back by ever thickening layers of sky that promise a cold winter ahead. Still, people move early in Konoha; though the few people passing by them are still half asleep, Kakashi prefers not to risk a single thing.

It is as though he cannot see himself. As though he is blind to his own desire to help and to save.

Hatake Kakashi will become, irrevocably, a gambler.

And so he leans down deep, till his lips reach her ear. His whisper is full of hot discipline, but Sakura is sharp enough to hear the cautious desperation that he is trying to hide.

'There will come a time soon,' says Father, gaze trained on the gently smoking floor, 'when you will need to keep a secret. Whatever it is, and however badly you feel you want to talk about it, you must tell _nobody_.'

Sakura gazes at the serious face of her Father. He does not meet her eyes. She can tell he wants to spill everything to her right now; share the vision in the murky tea leaves and educate her in the lesson of the future. But he cannot. She can see it in the tightness of his shoulders. She can feel it in the stiff restraint of his words.

'Father?' She tries her luck, her voice a little pleading. 'What could possibly be so important that we need to hide it from the rest of the world? Why on earth should I be asked to keep such an---'

'_Because!_' Father interrupts swiftly, raising his voice a little, tempering it with awareness of their environment but unable to disguise his urgency. 'Because if you don't keep it, Sakura, everything you have will be lost. All your medical books and assignments. I'll burn them.'

He has stung her hard. Her eyes widen. He does not like to hurt her but a man who can see into the future knows when hurtful things have to be done.

'All your hard work will be destroyed. And you will never see Naruto, or Hinata, or Ino again. You will lose everything. Your Mother will be taken away from you. And I will be taken away from you. _That_ is how important this secret is, Sakura. _That_ is how responsible you must be when I tell you.'

She is crying. Father never speaks to her like this. He is Father! He is gentle and loving; teller of great jokes, disciple of great literature. Sakura suddenly remembers the day she came to _Tengoku_ street; the day she refused to enter the house. That time when the darkness of night was interrupted by this tall, kind man, who softly convinced her that she smelt of the grime of a long journey, and ran her a warm bath. She was eight years old when her own Mother – the one who shone like a day on the beach – was taken from her.

How the world has changed. How the skies have greyed and wept since the day she slipped into the warm bath in Number Seven _Tengoku_ street. She stares at the hovering, malicious smoke as tears attack her cheeks.

'I hate him.'

Kakashi frowns, confused. That isn't the answer he has been expecting. He doesn't like the revolutionary glimmer in her eyes as she gazes dully ahead. He waits, knowing his silence will prompt Sakura to continue.

'This is all _his_ fault, isn't it?' The words tumble from her mouth before Kakashi can shove them back in. 'He took my first Mother from me! And now he's going to take you and Mother too! And all my friends! He's hurting all these people!'

He can't stop her. The words are pointed, and if he grabs them they will rip his hands to shreds.

'I hate the Fourth Hokage. I _hate_ Lord Orochimaru!'

He breathes. He closes his eyes tightly.

He slaps her.

'Don't you _**ever**_ say that!!!'

He _has_ to slap her. She doesn't understand the danger she is sweeping herself into with words like that. The sound stings across her cheek and flares red in her pale skin. She is stunned. The words have been stopped; water trapped by a black rubber plug.

Sakura's tears have stopped. She stares at him helplessly, slender hand caressing her own cheek in a shattered confusion. Kakashi forces himself. He throws out the words.

'You can say that in the house. You can say it to me all you like in the house. But _never _on the street. _Never_ in _Hatchlings_. _Never_ to your friends. Sakura, do you hear me?'

He grasps her slim shoulders. He can hardly control the insistence in his hands.

'Do you hear me?'

Her eyes are pinned by his own. She nods, nods again, and he can do nothing more but pull her close into the most fatherly hug he can manage.

'And you swear to keep the secret?' He has to know. He has to hear her promise.

Sakura buries her face in her Father's chest, inhaling the mild scent of mint and paper. She nods again. Before he can ask any more she squeezes the word out: 'Yes'.

She loves her Father. She loves his books and his eye-patch and his spiky old silver hair. She loves the comforting smell of his clothes.

She loves that he is preparing her.

Wiping her eyes, Sakura watches as Father pulls away, his face relieved and kind again.

'Are we friends, Sakura?'

Her cheek stops stinging. Her heart stops stinging. Her green eyes are dry as she smiles back at her Father.

'Yes, Father.'

He straightens up. Sakura remembers how tall Father is. She likes the soft colour of his hair and compares it to the thick colour of the dying smoke around them. The eye she can see crinkles up as he returns her smile.

'Let's practise.'

As the sun finally breaks through the sky, blinking its sleepy eyes and wondering at all the smoke and ash, it is greeted by the sight of two silhouetted figures, faintly glowing in the dawning light, snapping their saluting arms to their brows and repeating 'Hail, Lord Hokage! Hail, Orochimaru!'.

* * *

Mere streets away, something is going on.

Something is happening.

A secret is being carried in a basket.

* * *

Hyuga Hinata stepped out into the street an hour earlier than she normally would. It was Thursday; a day she normally spent in _Hatchlings_, and today of course would be no exception to the rule. Living fairly close, she could normally afford to sleep in a little before rising to help her Mother with the housework. Her younger sister Hanabi only started at _Hatchlings_ a few months ago and Hinata still felt it her duty to make sure her bag was packed and her lunch was made before setting off. It was Hinata's destiny to be the 'motherly' type.

She hadn't, however, slept much during the night. The scent of smoke was still fresh in her nostrils and the feeling of guilt at lying to Sakura clung to her hair mercilessly. After perhaps two hours of sleep, a very tired Hinata had slipped out of bed and into a warm robe, headed downstairs, and baked a little bread.

She didn't mean to lie to Sakura. In fact, she got the impression that Sakura was becoming as much of a secret Red sympathiser as herself. But Ino, lover of all things Konoha and blinded by propaganda, was too close, and Hinata could not bring herself to risk the safety of her current predicament for the sake of her own comfort.

She had a job to do. A man to protect.

Hinata let her long hair sink over her eyes. In her hands she carried a wicker basket stuffed with as much bread as she had managed to bake that morning.

'_Nearly two loaves should do for a few days,'_ she thought to herself as she glanced down at the basket. Her knuckles, gripping the handle, were white. _'With the little piece of ham I've added…'_

The street was quiet, and Hinata was grateful for the lack of company. She knew her shy, frightened body language would give her away instantly. She was no actress. She was no liar.

The basket bounced against her knees, and Hinata nearly stumbled over her neatly tied shoes. She took a moment to compose herself and sighed.

'_I'm not cut out for this.'_

Her feet forced her forward, rebalanced now, and she swallowed the breath she was holding. Her very pale grey eyes surveyed the street. It was empty. The small windows on the houses were beginning to reflect the dawn; mouths with chewy red and orange sweets between their shiny teeth. She was safe here. Nobody could see her.

Her school skirt swept below her knees as she continued, every inch the picture perfect maiden, steps clicking sweetly on the cobbles beneath her. A light autumnal breeze ambled down the street, carrying with it the memory of the book-burning.

Hinata didn't mind. It strengthened her resolve. Every time she gazed into the fire, she could see the face of a man she didn't know yet. Every time she watched the paper crumble, she swore it would not be his bones in the embers.

* * *

In a tiny room, two red eyes watch the wall. There is no sunlight. They are draped in only darkness.

His throat is dry. They can't risk seeing him more than once or twice a week. He can't swallow. He might be heard.

If he closes his eyes, and then opens them, he cannot tell the difference. The room is pitch. His hair splays across the wooden floor weakly, unable to spike up despite its prickly nature.

He draws in a deep breath through his nose. His feet ache miserably, longing for comfort. His bones will creak if he moves too much. There isn't room to stand, anyway.

His thoughts are far away. His gaze, fixed on the wall, is not where it appears to be. It is on a man with the same eyes, background shifting with each new worry, smile never ceasing despite the blackness seeping into the world through cracks in the sky.

His heart rests on his brother, and he hopes fervently, pitifully, that he has found himself a rat-hole to hide in.

* * *

Hinata arrived at Shikamaru's house in just under fifteen minutes. She was quite impressed with herself, as she had been trying not to walk too quickly as to avoid suspicion. The bread in the basket was still warm, and Hinata allowed herself a small smile of congratulations as she gingerly knocked on the door.

Shikamaru answered, body language reeking of sleepiness but his eyes betraying how wide-awake he was. Hinata slipped inside smoothly and the door was shut behind her.

'Were you seen?'

Hinata shook her head. 'Not at all. The streets are empty.'

Shikamaru, hair already scraped into a ponytail, sighed in relief. 'Thank goodness. I'll show you up.'

Nara Shikamaru, a childhood friend of Hinata's through one of her cousins, lived with his Father. His Mother had passed away years ago, and his Father, who owned a small pharmacy, had clumsily taken on the task of being a breadwinner and a homemaker for the sake of his son. They barely managed, but they survived. Hinata, bred into a fairly wealthy family, enjoyed her visits to Shikamaru's house, with its tiny hallway and crooked, cheap-looking picture frames. His Father was stern and sharp upon first inspection, but was truly an understanding man with a great talent for reading the character of those he met. However, Hinata didn't know whether he knew of their secret, and so she moved quietly through the house, hoping she didn't step on a creaky floorboard as Shikamaru led her upstairs.

'Smells delicious,' chuckled Shikamaru quietly as he climbed up the last few steps. Hinata paused, remembering that her family had food to spare, whilst Shikamaru and his Father did not.

'I will bake you some,' she said kindly, with a smile. 'As soon as I can.'

Shikamaru grinned at her before leading her towards his bedroom. Hinata's head would have been flooded with thoughts of impropriety had she not known and trusted this man as a true friend, and had she not recognised the gravity of the situation she was tangled within. She allowed herself to be led into Shikamaru's room, and did not mind when he shut the door with a 'click'.

She waited for a moment, ignoring the tugging feeling of her breath as it pulled in and out of her lungs. Shikamaru watched her momentarily, not sure how he should introduce the circumstances or move proceedings forward.

His room was small; four standard walls containing an unmade bed, a desk and a compact chest of drawers (some socks hung from one of the drawers, preventing it from being shut). The curtains had been opened a little to allow some of the birthing light to creep in, giving the room a dingy, half-used feel. Stacked near the bed were a small stool, an oil lamp, and a jug of water. Shikamaru reached for the lamp.

'You'll have to climb on the stool to get up there,' he said a bit awkwardly, grabbing a match and quickly lighting the small oil lamp. 'And then I suppose I can pass the water and what you've brought him up to you.'

Hinata nodded, hiding her instant worry about climbing up on the stool. She looked up to see a small, almost hidden hinge. A trapdoor was built into the ceiling. Shikamaru moved the water from the stool and quickly clambered up. As Hinata watched, uncertain and a little hesitant, he knocked on the ceiling three times in rapid succession.

'It's me!' he said in a half shout, half whisper. 'I've got you some food!'

He glanced down at Hinata. 'I'm going to guard the window. Climb onto the stool, pull this cord, and then the trapdoor will drop. Just clamber right up.'

Shikamaru jumped from the stool lithely and immediately moved to the window. A quick glance through the hardly-open curtains told him there were very few people outside, and none of them were interested in the events unfolding in his bedroom. He sighed, stopping himself from scowling at this whole troublesome mess, before briefly turning back to Hinata and seeing her legs waving in the air as she tried to pull herself up through the trapdoor.

'_What a drag…'_

Before Shikamaru could move to help her he saw a very pale arm reach down, curl itself around Hinata's midriff, and pull her (albeit inelegantly) into the trapdoor opening. He heard her squeak in surprise, but he didn't really feel the need to interfere. She was up, and she was safe.

Hinata felt less relaxed about the entire scenario. The area above the trapdoor, lit faintly now by the dull luminance below, was clearly very tiny. She could immediately see that she would be unable to stand up and would probably have to balance very carefully to avoid falling back through to the room below.

Perhaps more disturbing than the tiny room she had been dragged into were the blood red eyes about an inch away from her own.

Hinata bit down on her lip to avoid letting out a squeal. Before she could even take the time to fathom her discomfort or fear, Shikamaru called her from below.

'I'll pass you the lamp, Hinata!'

The pale girl shoved her hair backwards in a flurry of semi-panic and thrust an arm down towards the room below. Her fingers grasped the handle of the lamp and, not giving herself the time to overbalance, Hinata drew herself and the lamp back into the space above.

She was face to face with the most stereotypical Red she had ever seen.

Hinata, being a clever young woman, knew not to believe the propaganda flying around on the walls of Konoha. Knew not to believe the 'biological differences' lessons forced down her throat at _Hatchlings_. She knew plenty of Reds who defied each and every feature that regular 'Leaves' were taught to look for when distinguishing between the different people.

Yet this man…

She had never seen eyes like his in all her life. They glowed redder than the hot coals rooted at the fire of yesterday's book-burning. She supposed that the darkness probably made them worse but still… no wonder he was hiding! With those eyes there was no way he could pass himself off as a regular Leaf citizen.

It wasn't just his eyes. His hair was jet black and thick. His skin was pale as moonlight. More features she had been taught to look out for.

Hinata's tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. She desperately tried to find it again.

'S---Sas--- Sasuke?'

He continued to stare at her, taking in her _Hatchlings_ uniform and pale eyes. She could see the uncertainty, edging on fear, in his eyes. Shoulders lifted and fell sharply with each breath.

'I—I've brought you some… umm… some food!' she explained quickly, hoping to put his mind at rest. The closeness of the room struck her. It was quite cold and there were no windows whatsoever; the smallness of it made her feel a little queasy. Still, she had enough presence of mind to reach down towards Shikamaru and gesture for him to pass her the basket of bread and ham.

'It's not m-much…' she apologised inelegantly as she pulled the basket up and took out some of the bread. 'But hopefully it should last you for a few…'

He'd already torn into it, teeth flashing furious white as he ripped a chunky piece of bread apart. As he swallowed he looked pained, and Hinata remembered the water.

'Shikamaru!'

She groped down once again and the jug of water was passed to her. She quickly handed it to him, her confidence growing as her motherly nature settled back in, and watched as he lifted it to his lips, gulping the shimmering liquid eagerly. He paused for a moment, took a few deep breaths, and then set the rest of the bread back into Hinata's basket.

'I'll save the rest.'

It was the first time she'd heard him speak. His voice was rough and strange on her ears.

She nodded, that motherly feeling slipping away as she realised that this was a man not in need of babying, or of pity. He was simply a victim of circumstance. She wondered about his past. She wondered if he had a mother.

'What's your name?' he asked, rather gruffly. His clothes - an off white shirt and some dark trousers – looked dirty and sweaty. From what Shikamaru had told her, he'd run for his life the night all the windows were broken. Had been bundled inside in a hurry and heaved up into this tiny attic with not another word, without a single respite for his thirst or his sweat or his feet…

His feet!

'Oh!' Hinata gasped, ignoring his question. He started a little, made nervous again by her outburst and her uniform and her knowledge that he even existed. She scrambled about with the basket for another moment before retrieving a small roll of thin bandages and a bottle of something unidentifiable.

'Shikamaru mentioned y-your feet,' she smiled as kindly as she could, feeling the nerves fumbling in her stomach but knowing she had a job to try and complete. 'Running over all of that g-glass must have been… must have been awful. Let me h-help…'

Shaking her hair out of her eyes once more, Hinata reached toward the man's feet. He was tense; she could see the tightness of his entire body as she moved that extra inch closer.

'I'll be gentle,' she smiled again, her soft eyes focusing on his own (she noticed the more she gazed at them, the less frightening they were). 'You can't sit up h-here with glass in your feet.'

The tension did not ease from his body, but Hinata was able to pull at one of his shoes and remove it. He winced instantly – a number of small shards of glass had pierced the sole of the shoe and the soft skin at the bottom of his foot. Examining the foot briefly, she then removed the other shoe and set to work removing the rest of the glass.

He stared upwards, at the ceiling, which was only a few feet away from their faces. Every now and then Hinata heard him hiss quietly as she pulled out another piece of glass. In the dim glow of the oil lamp, she couldn't be sure that she got all of the pieces out, but her keen eyes could see no more shards left in the tender skin. Her hands were silky and mild, glancing over the sore wounds with the grace of a summer cloud. Tiny pen strokes of blood blotted the soles of his feet but Hinata was quick to wipe them away with some alcoholic lotion (more wincing), and within minutes his feet were bandaged tightly. The occasional patch of red bled through the crisp dressing.

'You're done,' she said as she tied the last knot in the binding. 'They'll heal up soon, no d-doubt.'

The man was silent. He watched her slender hands as she pulled away, placing them upon her lap.

'You don't n-need to worry.' She looked down at her knees, her pretty features suddenly serious. The smoulder of the lamp hovered against the skin on her face. 'We will take care of you. Y-you're safe here.'

He seemed to frown at that statement, and Hinata, gentle in her kindness, wondered if she had said anything wrong.

'That's very kind,' he said, at length, his expression awkward and unfamiliar to Hinata. 'But if they come for me…'

He breathed deeply, clenching his fists while she watched.

'If they come for me, there's nothing you can do.'

What was she doing? Her life was at stake. Her very presence in this tiny little attic, full of rotten timber and shaky rafters, forced her into a category of people she never thought she would join.

Criminals.

Her breath caught in her throat. The complications of the situation, the danger, the risk of it all going wrong, suddenly felt dry and real. What happened if she were to be caught? What of her mother, and sister, and friends?

What of this man?

The flames of the book-burning were hotter, molten daggers stabbing at her heels. The ash was bone. The paper was skin.

The smoke was tears. Jet tears of chalky grey-wash.

She felt sorry for the men turned to rats. She felt sorry for their ruby eyes.

'We won't…' her voice was as thin as the paper they'd burned. 'We won't… l-let them… It will _never_ come to that!'

She'd startled him again, but this time the fear wasn't stiff in his muscles. Surprise was wide in his gaze. He watched the timid creature kneeling before him, hands sticky with minor splatters of his own blood, as sweet and innocent as the pale, holy moon. He watched her eyes, whiter than his skin; watched the fortitude and the terrified resolve as it solidified. Saw her history and her life of comfort and relative wealth dim to a faded dream as she prioritised _his_ needs over her own. His _survival_ over her own.

Uchiha Sasuke didn't really know what to say.

'I'll bring you bread, and some… some meat, when I can,' she said softly, smoothing down the wrinkles in her brown skirt. 'It won't be every day – a f-few times a week, maybe… but we'll make sure you have enough for as l-long as we can.'

He _really_ didn't know what to say. Sasuke wasn't used to kindness; not from anyone who wasn't Naruto. Scowls and abuse in the street, rude slogans slashed across his shop in paint – these were what he was used to. Not a pale young woman stepping up to the sacrificial altar. Not a change in the direction of the knife.

He looked away. Awkward. Uncomfortable. Muttered a 'thanks' with as much meaning as his pride would allow him.

The girl beamed; her smile was that of one whose only happiness came from that of others. Whose only joy came from the gladness of those she helped.

'You didn't tell me your name,' he said quickly, trying to stop eyeing the bread; trying to force himself to make it last. She looked mildly surprised. The darkness didn't seem so inclusive all of a sudden. She flicked her fringe out of her eyes with another smile.

'Hinata,' she answered. 'P-pleased to meet you, Sasuke.'

She held out her hand, and as Sasuke took it, he prayed (silently, fervently, foolishly) that Itachi had found himself a Hinata too.

* * *

It is touching. It is sweet and mild, like a breeze whose gentle breaths lap in waves along a body. It soothes. It will end well. She will take care of him. The red will nourish the sky at night, breeding good weather, nursing the rain to rest. The breeze will die, peaceful and soft. The heart will quiet. The soul will sleep.

Lies.

There is no future. The sky is red with blood.

The snow is stained with souls.

* * *

One month passes. One month of secret bread baskets. Of new laws. Of arrests. Of fear and monitoring. One month of weeping. To soon be broken.

On the first of September, of the thirty-ninth year of the Sixth Age of Konoha, the Fourth Hokage, Lord Orochimaru, declares war on the nearby Water Country. Men are marched into the neighbouring province of the Village Hidden in the Mist. Mist is occupied almost immediately. Konoha's army is immaculately superior.

Bloodshed.

Kakashi sinks back into spirals of the past. Inky rubies wasting into water drown his eyes.

Sakura goes on, heart silent, eyes saddened more day by day. She strives. She knows her world will not hold as it is.

Anko cleans. Anko cooks. Anko's soul, brash and grit, continues. For the sake of it. For him.

Naruto keeps secrets. Naruto starts to lose control of the situation. Naruto starts to pull at his hair unconsciously.

Shikamaru hides. Feeds. Whispers comfort. Shikamaru lies awake at night.

Hinata delivers. Hinata bakes. Hinata loves quite unconditionally.

Somebody watches. Somebody watches each of her guilty steps.

_The Red goes unmentioned._

Dirty secrets should never be exposed.

* * *

Time has got his eye on _Tengoku_ street once again. His eyes glisten in the grey rain of the bleak. He stretches his wings. He is restless for it. An inexhaustible hunger circles, relentless, in his belly.

December. In December, the game is up.

Not long now, thinks Time, settling back into a comfortable perch on the gutter of the roof.

Not long now.


	7. The Boy and the Battlefield

**RED**

**Chapter Six; The Boy and the Battlefield**

**

* * *

  
**

The days of winter slipped away from Sakura in a wet gust. She sank deep into the pages of her books, taking after the ways of her Father. Medicine was complex, and she struggled to learn the hundreds of new words and definitions and rules that she needed to know.

Father helped her, of course. Her knowledge and understanding far surpassed his, but he didn't mind spending his time with her, repeating words he could not place that sounded unfamiliar and sterile on his tongue.

Initially they began their revision sessions in the small upstairs bedroom that belonged to Sakura. However Anko, with her crane-fly limbs and sweeping brushes, became too much of a regular disturbance. Sakura would almost have the meaning of _echopraxia_ stiffened and ingrained in her mind when her Mother would burst in, all spindly arms and legs, and begin to sweep vigorously.

In September they moved to the basement. It seemed an entirely sound workplace; Anko only cleaned it once a week, during the day when Sakura was at _Hatchlings_ studying hard. Her evenings of revision with her Father went undisturbed in the silence underneath the house.

The basement was fairly large and spacious – there was one tiny window in the far eastern corner where, if Sakura looked carefully, she could spy the feet of people as they breezed by outside. She quite liked it; the sounds of the weather could occasionally float in, if the rain was particularly hard or the wind particularly raucous. A small table was already set up beneath the window and atop it sat a small typewriter. When Sakura, feeling guilty, questioned her Father about the typewriter, wondering when he would be able to work on his novel if she was using his basement space all the time, he simply smiled, and told her that he would much rather be helping her step – stumble – into her own future than be staring at a blank piece of paper and trying the words to begin a lifetime of sentences.

Sakura had never dreamed she would end up writing on the walls of the basement.

They were a murky grey stone colour, but Father, who had been a painter in the days before he owned his beloved bookshop, had stored up a number of half-tubs of paint. And so the night they had moved their revision sessions into the basement, he'd whipped out an old large brush and coated one of the walls, quite messily (he had no need for neatness) in a dull white. They hadn't accomplished much that night, but the next day Sakura found her hands gripped around the slender handle of a brush, sprawling large letters in black upon the newly painted wall.

'Write it again,' Father had said. And so she did. She wrote it over, and over, and over. In small letters. In joined up handwriting. Upside-down. In letters the size of her arm.

_Calcaneus. Calcaneus. Calcaneus._

_Palpebra. Palpebra. Palpebra. _

_Jejunostomy. Jejunostomy. Jejunostomy._

When the words were learnt – when she knew them and could spell and define each according to her textbook, Father would paint over the wall in the same pallid white, and the process would begin again the next night. And so it was that Sakura found favour with her teachers in _Hatchlings_. Bright already, she discovered that the stark black paint would not leave her mind once painted inside. She made the words her own. She began to master her subject.

In September the weather wasn't too chilly; the occasional patch of sunshine even made its way onto _Tengoku_ Street and slid into the basement through the tiny window. It was fairly warm and made a decent classroom. The oil lamp they kept down there lasted a good few hours – more than enough time for Sakura to learn perhaps twenty or twenty-five new words thoroughly. However in October the weather changed quite violently, and Sakura and her Father had to huddle closer to the oil lamp to ease the trembling in their fingers. By November they had taken to wearing their coats and gloves down into the basement with them, and staying up past eleven o' clock was simply impossible. Anko toasted their beds upstairs with hot water bottles so the two students could clamber straight into a warm bed once they had finished their learning.

Sakura loved both of her parents, but she had never loved anybody in the world more than she loved her Father. She knew of nobody else who would help her learn in such a way. He understood none of the words. He tackled them valiantly with a clumsy tongue, not really even able to grasp the underlying concepts beneath their pronunciation. His devotion to her, despite his inability to understand, only increased her adoration of him. It didn't matter about the cold, and the dark, and the shivering fingers and the dimming light. Each minute she spent with him was a minute wrapped in blankets and scarves of joy and tenderness. His perseverance and commitment warmed her heart more than any flame could.

* * *

It will not last. Nothing will last. How can anything last in a world like this?

There is no more glass to throw at you. Instead, History itself hurtles, individual stories sharpened and jagged. Faces torn and ripping. Brusque and filed to a dreadful point.

They will cut your skin.

They will pierce your heart.

* * *

The war had not made much of a significant difference in Sakura's life. Anything she might hear on the wireless in the evening was ignored for the sake of painting more words upon the wall of the basement. She'd never been to the Village Hidden in the Mist and so it seemed almost like a fantasyland to her. The newspapers told her that the inhabitants of Mist were vicious and barbaric, but she didn't really know how much to believe of that.

The worlds of her world were words to help. To heal. She heard one thing and thought of another. Her focus was astounding.

'Twelve-hundred Reds taken from small province of Jouki…'

_Calcaneus. Calcaneus. Calcaneus._

'_Mist resistance is proving futile against the superior might of Lord Orochimaru's exemplary forces…'_

_Palpebra. Palpebra. Palpebra._

'_Province of Koori stormed and occupied by Konoha forces…'_

_Jejunostomy. Jejunostomy. Jejunostomy._

She felt sorry for her Father. He could not understand the words that she hid in. The only ones he had were the only ones she ran from.

* * *

She is right, of course.

Every word of war is another bullet shot, another terrible scream. It's different now. There are no trenches.

Kakashi needs no trenches. Kakashi is trapped in a trench he can never escape.

* * *

A man with silver hair that clashes with his youthful features leans miserably against the wall of a dugout. He had signed up to this war with spirits propped high with optimism, and now all he can see is the depressing green outline of his mud-soaked boots. There was a time he had loved to watch the sky weave its patterns above the earth; now, he can barely bring himself to lift his gaze from the ground. His eyes, once healthy and keen, are uninspired and heavy. His hands are rough with scratches and dirt.

'You're late. Sir.'

He doesn't need to look up to notice another sodden pair of boots trudging into the ground nearby. His dark brown eyes watch some watery mire bubble up around the rubber soles. With a sigh, he awaits his Captain's answer.

'Sorry about that!' The voice is too cheerful. It meshes and grinds uncomfortably with this environment, like the chain of a bicycle slipping from the gears. 'A black cat crossed my path, and I didn't want to take any chances, so I went the long way around!'

Kakashi snorts. He hasn't yet grown into a man who can patiently absorb such idiocies. Eyes still on the ground, he pulls himself away from the trench wall and attempts to straighten his back.

'You wanted to see me?'

'Yes,' comes the voice of his superior. 'It won't take very long. I have some mission details for tomorrow night, and I wanted to go over them with you. A man with your careful brain is useful for this type of thing.'

Kakashi finally glances up. Even he cannot resist the warmth and joviality in the Captain's voice. His brown stare crashes into the merry red one of Obito.

'Just make it quick, Obito, will you? I still have to clean my rifle before dark – and it looks like rain.'

Obito, black hair sticking out in choppy, barbed-wire spikes from beneath his helmet, glances up at the ominous horizon.

'It always looks like rain from in here,' he says, gesturing for Private Kakashi to follow him along the trench. 'I can't _wait_ for the sun to come back.'

Kakashi can't scoff. He cannot drench his superior in bleak pessimism, as gaping and long as the stretches of night that roll out before them in a blur of explosions and hot smoke.

'One of these days, Sir,' he offers, trying to push his misery deep into his stomach. 'One of these days it will show up. Somewhere.'

* * *

A wet and windy Tuesday in early December found Uzumaki Naruto, clad in a thick black trenchcoat, hovering near the gates of the local _Juveniles _institution. The large brick building housed over one-thousand male pupils in its sleek brown walls, and boasted a huge training track and sports ground at its rear alongside a large, grassy area at the front, fringed by impressive metal gates. When the pupils were not engrossed in political education and sciences, they were sprinting around the track or learning basic weapons-handling in a well-equipped practise studio.

Naruto, of course, hated Tuesdays, and this particular Tuesday was no exception to the rule. He'd spent the day attempting to clean his small house without much success, and had eaten lunch alone at a café nearby. Not many people could understand why Naruto's face had looked haggard and stressed of late; they couldn't really spot the worry in his eyes, nor could they hear his beating heart or see into his scratchy nightmares. Only those who knew him well – or shared his nightmares – could really empathise. To most, he was simply an insolent, rebellious adolescent, who showed about as much respect to his elders as a cat might show to a rabbit. Scowling at the cold weather, and the thought of people's misguidance, he'd tucked his face deeper into his faded orange scarf, attempted to bury himself under his umbrella as the rain knocked insistently from above, and made his way to the gates of _Juveniles_ just in time to catch Shikamaru on his way out.

Shikamaru looked utterly sullen at the poor weather; he caught sight of Naruto and hunched his way over, silently stepping under the shelter of the large black umbrella. They didn't really need to look at one another, or say anything, for Shikamaru to understand why Naruto was waiting for him. They both began to walk away from the _Juveniles _building towards the west of the village, fighting against the rain with tough, scrunched up expressions.

It was a while before either of them spoke. When they were about five minutes from the street that Shikamaru lived on, Naruto decided that the rain was noisy enough, and the area was deserted enough, to talk.

'How is he?'

Shikamaru glanced up at his blond companion with very dark brown, narrow eyes. Despite the protection of Naruto's umbrella, Shikamaru's spiky brown ponytail was saggy and drenched. It clung to the back of his neck as though it were hugging him for warmth.

'He's quiet,' he replied after a moment, making a note of the strain in Naruto's voice. 'It's cold in that loft. We have nothing spare to give him. Dad and I are barely getting by as it is… and Hinata can't come as often as she'd hoped…'

Naruto swallowed, and then nodded. 'She suspected she was being followed, didn't she?'

The intensity of Shikamaru's scowl deepened, confirming what Naruto had thought. 'It's that nosey Ino. She asks too many questions, and Hinata's a nervous person as it is.'

Their words broke away for a moment, mesmerised by the rain flickering across the stony ground.

'We need to move him, don't we?'

Shikamaru paused for a moment, considering all the odds, his body tense. Naruto was entirely unsurprised when Shikamaru finally nodded, expression defeated.

'I'm sorry. I can't think of a way around it. He mustn't stay any longer.'

A stray few drops of rainwater flicked into Naruto's eyes, and he blinked. The water was cold, buffered by the ceaseless wind. An umbrella could do little to protect against such weather.

'Did I ever show you,' the blond commented suddenly, his voice not quite piercing the heavy breeze, 'the book that Kakashi gave me that night?'

The mood had changed. He couldn't identify it. Instead, Shikamaru glanced at Naruto sharply, his bright mind already whirring. '_My Labour_, wasn't it?'

Naruto grinned. 'Good memory. But look!' Shikamaru stared in confusion as Naruto carefully removed the leather-bound book from an inside pocket of his coat.

Carefully sheltering the book with the umbrella, and allowing his hair to instantly become saturated, Naruto offered Shikamaru an almost devious smile. He opened the thick volume, flicking uninterestedly through pages and pages of text that Shikamaru couldn't help but recognise. He stopped at the last page, and turned it dramatically, for effect.

'This edition is a rare one. It has a few extra inserts.'

Shikamaru frowned, almost entirely baffled, studying the inside of the hard back-cover.

It took him one moment.

Just one moment.

To notice the extra stitching in the leather.

A pocket had been sewn into the back of the book.

Quick as he was, Shikamaru knew better than to declare his surprise to the entire street. He glanced over Naruto's shoulder, looking past the umbrella and into the surrounding street, checking, suddenly paranoid, for anybody who might be listening.

The rain had killed off almost all activity on the pavement. They, huddled together under the book like it was a source of heat, of life, glowing against their fingertips, were the only survivors.

'I'm not stupid enough to ask you to empty the contents of that pocket on the street.' Shikamaru's voice was low, and monotonous. 'But tell me. Are they enough to save his life?'

Naruto leaned in close. Rainwater fingered its way through his hair and onto his skin. Shikamaru could see the frantic, desperate desire in his fiery blue eyes.

'Citizenship papers.'

Brown eyebrows shot up. 'You can't be serious.'

Naruto smiled. 'Deadly.'

* * *

On the day that Kakashi's world is upheaved, misty and dense, he can feel the sun on his back.

It doesn't really surprise him.

He cannot tell the future at this point, and so he does not know what to expect. Hindsight is painful; he will always run through the millions of alternate endings to the sunny scenario. He will never know which one would have worked.

Right now, it is dawn. The spurious fog is baked over the land, but the heaving, scorching bosom of morning is spilling into the edges. It has been a long time since Kakashi watched the sun rise. The lids of his eyes feel thick and sickly; such bright light is unfamiliar and almost silly when they gaze at the world around them. The birthing day brings out the warmth in his skin. The warmth is sallow.

'That rifle still looks dirty to me, Private.'

Kakashi, watching the day break from the floor of a trench, glares at the shadow of Captain Obito as it sweeps into the warmth of the sky.

'You're in my light, Captain.'

Obito laughs. He always laughs. It is a noise quieter and louder than the peal of bullets.

'If it won't fire because it's clogged, you can't blame me. I gave you plenty of time to clean it last night.'

Kakashi's frown is not a serious one. As Obito looks at it, from upside-down and above, it looks like a smile.

'What time is debrief?'

'Eight o'clock,' replies Obito, dark hair glowing brown in the dawn. 'First attack wave at nine.'

Kakashi nods. There's nothing really to say to that. Obito kindly moves out of his light, and if he ignores the few strands of silver hair nestled into his vision, he can stare up at the sky, watch the dawn bloom into the barbed wire trees, and forget where he is.

Just for a little while.

* * *

The plan was finalised. Over and over and over again.

He couldn't move straight from one place to another. He couldn't speak to anybody. He couldn't reveal his eyes.

A distraction would be necessary.

Daylight was less suspicious than darkness, but darkness brought with it secrecy and shadow. Darkness was an extra cloak.

They opted for evening.

Shikamaru's house was roughly one mile away from Naruto's. That mile was comprised, on the whole, of streets, not heavily patrolled, but inhabited mostly by middle class 'Leaf Citizens' who were mildly _anti-rouge_ and would call for help if they spotted a Red approaching. Naruto estimated it would take Sasuke roughly half an hour to navigate the streets carefully enough to get to the safety of _Tengoku_ street, but Shikamaru advised him to plan for slightly longer – Sasuke hadn't eaten properly – or _walked_, or _stood up_, for that matter – in months. In order for him to successfully reach Kakashi's house without being caught or collapsing half way there, he would need extra time.

The planning was done in short, momentary bursts of speech; tiny punctures in the clockwork of their carefully structured society, bit by bit letting the air out.

'When?'

Shikamaru's question was awkward and pierced more abruptly than the others. A 'when' made it final. A 'when' was suddenly a hurdle that could not be avoided or jumped. A hurdle to plough through.

'The twelfth,' Naruto answered after a moment. 'For no reason at all.'

Shikamaru didn't suppose he needed one.

* * *

On the morning of the eleventh of the month, Hinata paid a final visit to Shikamaru's house. The sweet scent of morning rain, pervasive and probing, could not dampen the alluring aroma of the basket of freshly baked bread she carried in her pale hands. Wrapped soundly in a deep lilac raincoat (despite the rain having fallen through the night and had stopped some hours ago), Hinata listened to the sound of her shoes clicking on the ground, and wondered if this would be the last time she would ever hear the same sound again.

She knew she'd walk here many more times in her life. She knew she'd wear these shoes, and walk through the rain; all factors would be the same bar one.

That one factor could drown out every sound she heard until the world was blanketed.

As quiet as she tried to keep her thoughts, saving somebody's life could not be done in a whisper.

Once Sasuke was gone, she realised, nothing would ever sound the same again. Not the ground. Not the stillness of the morning. Not her shoes.

Hinata listened.

* * *

It comes to you with no question – no permission.

It is here. The moment you fear and dread. It slakes the thirst your hammering heart has drowned in. It reflects in the bulge of the whites of your eyes.

Looking death in the face is no easy task.

With the bullets, and with the darkness, and with the stench and the trepidation and the unknown, all you can really do is cling to the shadows. They're in-between the white and the black. They're the murky parts of the story. The fuzzy, gritty parts of the memory.

They're probably your best bet.

* * *

Kakashi is staring at the sky again. His head is hurting. An enemy just bashed his helmet with the butt of his rifle, and, despite the metal being strong enough to protect him, he still feels a little dizzy. He went down (_'That's what you're taught to do!'_) and now he's lying here, weighed into the mud by his heavy kit, wondering if that's barbed wire pressing sharply into his ankle and paying almost pristine attention to the shapes of the clouds.

The glowing heat of the dawn has moulded into a thick, tension-ridden stuffiness. Kakashi guesses it is roughly ten-past nine. A light rain began to fall an hour ago, and it has developed, becoming a haze of blast-smoke water and damp.

'I should get up. The trench isn't far. I can use the smoke as cover…'

The clouds are soft, in the distance. They don't seem to feel the weight of the rain they discharge. They are free to shed that heaviness and murk it down onto the earth, letting the humans wallow in the misery they have sown. Kakashi doesn't feel they owe him anything. He, like the rest, is deserving of the scorn they show.

Footsteps.

'_Definitely time to get up.'_

_

* * *

  
_

When Sasuke stepped unsteadily out of the front door, the dim light of the outside world hurt his eyes. The sky had blackened to an almost obsidian hue, allowing the moon a vague peek at the world.

He had to stop. He had to look at it, and breathe the air. Shikamaru had warned him that there was no time for pleasantries, but barely surviving in an attic-space for four months had left him with a craving for anything that tasted better than the smell of warping rafters.

Anything that could subjugate the bitter tang of fear festering on the back of his tongue.

His legs were embarrassingly weak; Shikamaru had shown sense in helping him down from the attic a few hours before he was due to depart for his next burrow. Not having the room to sit (never mind stand) had left his body sore and unmercifully stiff, and his knees seemed almost incapable of holding what was left of his once decent weight. Walking (and falling) around Shikamaru's small bedroom had helped greatly, but nothing could really have prepared his feet (clad in a pair of Shikamaru's old school shoes – at least two sizes too small for him) for the tough, chewed-up texture of the cold ground outside.

The evening was bitterly cold. No blanket of cloud had graced the horizon and, as the last faint tinges of the sun passed away into the night, Sasuke allowed his body a moment to adjust. The shivering would pass, he convinced himself, if he waited a few moments longer. The yawning windows of the houses watched him beadily. He wanted to shrink at their gaze.

A few more moments.

A few more.

Naruto and Shikamaru had taken it upon themselves to create a hubbub in the central area of Konoha. Their logic was that it _might_ lessen the strain on Sasuke's journey if they could pull away as many members of _Fang_ from the west as they possibly could. Sasuke was uncomfortable with the two risking their lives to attempt to preserve his own (particularly when he suspected that even the most explosive of distractions could not cover up the smell of a quaking Red to the nose of a _Fang_ guard), but he could not convince Shikamaru to alter the plan.

He had to move. He _had_ to move. If he stayed put, he would be caught. The night would swallow him up in its cavernous entirety.

'_Move, Sasuke.'_

He would be beaten. Murdered. Burned away into nothingness.

'_You've got to move.'_

He rubbed his hands against the thick material of a coat loaned to him by Naruto. The light grey colour leaped and bounded in the darkness but it was warm and made him look like a regular citizen of the village; one who could afford necessities such as winter clothing. Beneath the coat he trembled against the same shirt and trousers he had worn for months. Beneath the shadows cast by the night, Sasuke's red eyes glowed in the dark.

Shikamaru's advice had been to squint as much as he could in order to stop his heredity giving him away. He thought that useless advice – surely walking around with his eyes half shut would make him less able to see any approaching danger and more suspicious to anybody watching. The alternative he chose was to train his eyes on the ground, and only look up when necessary. The air bit at his exposed ears. He hoped they would help.

Just as he tensed his foot to take the first step, Sasuke thought of his brother. He remembered the lengths Itachi had gone to in order to protect him. Without moving a muscle, Sasuke allowed himself the filling up feeling of a smile. Inside.

'Move Sasuke!'

He swore he'd see his brother again. Without saying a word.

* * *

'I hate to say it, Kakashi,' comes the voice, 'but sleeping time ended at half past six this morning!'

He squints into the thick, powdery mist. He can just about distinguish two eyes and a mop of unhelmeted hair. Captain Obito is grinning down at him from a half-crouching position.

He grumbles. 'Call it payback for all the times you were late for briefings.'

He can see in Obito's eyes that he is about to burst into that loud, bullet-laughter again, but the shadow of an exploding landmine causes him to drop to the ground.

Kakashi scowls at him.

'You're hardly one to lecture me, Sir. Where's your helmet?'

As the crackle of the explosion melts into the fog, Obito has the good sense to look sheepish.

'Knocked it off when we came over the top.'

Kakashi's scowl deepens. 'Ridiculous.'

Obito's smile is red in the mist. 'Not as ridiculous as sleeping in No Man's Land.'

Kakashi doesn't bother looking embarrassed. There is no time; his ears, still sharp despite the rolling sounds of war sinking into them, can hear more footsteps.

Both soldiers lie still, momentarily. The time to move will come, but for now, they must hide and wait for the danger to pass. Some enemy soldiers have been equipped of late with 'automatic' rifles which are faster and more powerful than the guns that Kakashi and Obito cling to as they wait, and breathe, and wonder.

And breathe.

And wonder.

And when the time comes

they must move

and dive into the fog, and part it as the waves and tides of long forgotten legend

and hope the Promised Land (safety. new socks. letters from home.) awaits them on the other side.

'_Move, Kakashi.'_

But the sea is so deep.

'_You've got to move.'_

And as his black-haired Captain arises Kakashi can only feel the weight of the mud clinging to his weakening back, drudging with fear and mist and terrible, lonely repetition. He is too young for this. He has not yet known the world enough to watch the skies weep and feel deserving. He has not seen enough of his future to regret each move of his past.

Obito stands before him. His back is straight. His is stupidly brave, and recklessly loyal.

His hand is stretched out. His smile, faint and blurred in the fog, reaches further.

'Move, Kakashi.'

* * *

Catching his breath on the first street corner he reached, Sasuke glanced down at the briefcase dangling from his bare right knuckles. The paleness of them seemed to undulate in the approaching moonlight. Trying to calm his breathing, Sasuke fidgeted a little, forcing the sleeves of his coat to slip down his arms and brush his knuckles.

This particular corner led onto a long, open avenue. The cobbled road running down the centre was wide, and the houses leaning into the road reminded him of trees with outreached, grasping branches. Swallowing, Sasuke told himself sharply to stop over thinking things. He had to concentrate on making it to one particular intersection of the street, down which he could turn into a decent alleyway that would shelter him from the public for a few minutes.

He hadn't realised the depth of the coldness of the night in the first few moments of his journey (perhaps because he'd put his shivering down to nerves, or excitement, or terror), but he felt it acutely now. Delicate little ringlets of air curled from his slightly parted lips in spiralling wisps. They floated away innocently, dispersing into the night without a care.

Sasuke focused himself. Glanced down at the crumpled letter he held in his left hand. It was the only beacon he had to guide him through this black, unlit night.

And so he walked towards it.

His back was rigid and straight as he began to make his way down the long avenue that reminded him of a haunted forest path. Sasuke eyed his shadow gingerly as the coat swept along the top of his knees. He did not allow the battered suitcase to swing, but held it still.

Some of the houses, he noticed as he brushed past them, emitted light from the front windows. If he dared he could catch the glare of a lamp resting on a table.

It was only half past seven, but the cold and the early winter darkness had driven people from the streets. Ignoring the way it nipped at his skin, Sasuke silently thanked the cold for swathing him in its frosty arms. With any luck, he would encounter nobody else upon his journey.

When he had almost arrived at the alleyway (so close he could see it!), Sasuke caught sight of a gentleman walking toward him.

And

suddenly

the frigid weather was ice, ice so brittle and unstable that he could crack it and slip into a bitter stream of blackness at any moment. He could not afford to lighten his steps, or quicken his already nervous breathing. His grip on the suitcase tightened till his nails dug into his palm.

Sasuke watched the floor. He walked. He breathed.

The darkness surrounded them both, substantial and bulky.

Sasuke pushed through it. He breezed past the man on the street. He didn't stay long enough to catch the musky scent of his cologne. He didn't even notice what he looked like.

The alley was there. Moments, half-moments away. It grew before him, like a crevice in a rock opening itself up.

Sasuke dove into the alley. A few steps in, he sank to his knees, dropped his hands to the frozen floor, and tried to rest.

He didn't know if he'd ever felt this exhausted in his life.

He was halfway there.

* * *

Halfway there, Kakashi falls to his knees. The strap of his helmet is coming loose beneath his chin due to the thump he took earlier, and it hangs to the side, letting some of his silvery hair escape into his eyes.

A twisted piece of shrapnel has just embedded itself into his thigh. The pain is not tremendous but the impact is enough to bring him down. The bobbled cloth material of his uniform instantly clots with a small splodge of blood.

Obito is, of course, at his side. Kakashi has never been able to understand their bond. When he'd first joined the Fourth Regiment, he'd known nobody else, and Obito, the clumsy Lieutenant at the time, had taken him under his wing. Kakashi, even younger then, had thought Obito his inferior (despite promotion); his awkward manner and loud, over-friendly antics made him seem a ridiculous choice for a commander.

Soon Kakashi learned that a boy's life on the battlefield is not an easy one. Nor a logical one, at times. Kakashi's first days on the front line (he shuddered to think back on them) were marked with a distinct, eerie cheerfulness that no other could match.

And now the Captain is here, knees to the mire, hands fumbling around some pitiful form of tourniquet to stop the mild bleeding. Kakashi pushes him away.

'It's fine. I can walk.'

He is lying; he can stumble, at best. Some sort of nerve has been stricken by whatever has pierced the flesh of his leg, and Kakashi's limb is drained and shaken. He drags himself up, Obito never moments from his side, and they continue together toward where they believe the next trench to be.

They do not expect to be confronted by three enemy soldiers. They do not understand the foreign words hurled at them like projectiles.

Kakashi simply fumbles with his rifle, dirty fingers shaking with urgency and desperation. He hears his Captain swear next to him. A shot whizzes past his ear, and Kakashi flicks his head to the right to avoid another wound.

Obito pulls the trigger on his rifle, aiming through the mist and the panic. The shot rings out.

Kakashi pulls the trigger.

There is no shot.

'If it won't fire because it's clogged, you can't blame me. I gave you plenty of time to clean it last night.'

There is no time.

* * *

After catching as much breath as he could on the cold alley floor, Sasuke realised that time was running short, pulled himself to his feet, and stumbled along the dark, long corridor, toward the next street he had to negotiate.

And although every bone in his body was expecting it, Sasuke was still chilled with surprise when he encountered a _Fang_ guard at the opening to the street.

He fought every instinct to run. Each nerve in his body bristled at him to flee. He overrode them all, repeating over and over in a voice he hardly recognised as his own that the only way this situation could be handled was with decorum, composure and clarity.

It didn't stop his hands from trembling.

He hadn't seen this man before. He was tall – taller than Itachi had been (_'Don't use the past tense!')_ – with a clean-shaven chin and a long, sallow face. Sasuke didn't meet his eyes. It would be his undoing.

He felt it best to act as though he was doing nothing out of the ordinary. Forcing himself to breathe calmly through his nose, Sasuke walked past the _Fang_ guard as though he were a casual stroller in some other life. With some other genes.

He scrunched the note tightly into his hand.

The guard sniffed him out. Sasuke could practically hear him tense, watching him like a predatory hawk. Beady eyed. Gleaming.

* * *

Time is watching from a not-too-distant rooftop. He can see beyond the clouds and into the fragile next steps of this young man. His eye is always searching.

Time is hungry.

* * *

Sasuke didn't stop until the _Fang_ guard called to him. He could feel the cold air settling in his scalp as he paused as innocently as a guilty man could, turning to face his predator.

He could not be afraid. There was not an inch of room for an extra heartbeat.

Fear would be the death of him.

Sasuke boldly met the eyes of the man who had called to him. He tried to forget about the culpable colour of his own gaze and instead focused on appearing confident.

_'Decorum…'_

'Thought I saw red,' said the _Fang_ guard. He strode a little closer to Sasuke, who straightened his back as much as he could. 'They're really bright ones.'

Upon closer inspection, without fear knotting his eyes into confusion, Sasuke could see that the guard was not much older than himself. His hair was clipped short in the traditional 'army' style and his features were quite youthful and bright.

Bravado creeping into his blood, Sasuke shrugged a little. 'I suppose they're hard to miss in the dark.'

That earned him a snort from the guard. Sasuke didn't really know how safe the ground upon which he stood was. His keen gaze hadn't missed the holstered weapon that the guard carried, and yet the guard hadn't attacked him, or attempted to seize him; there seemed to be no malice or desire to hurt in his expression.

Sasuke ignored the spiteful stare of Time and pushed further.

'Is there a reason,' he asked smoothly, without looking up at the guard, 'why you've stopped me?'

The guard's face darkened, but with mild embarrassment, not blind fury. He scowled at Sasuke.

'You're a Red! I'm supposed to arrest you on sight unless you can produce valid papers proving you have permission to stay in the country.'

At that statement Sasuke felt an odd mixture of emotions.

For the first time in a very, very long time, Sasuke was _angry_. Angry that he needed papers to validate his own existence. Angry that he was stood here, every bone shivering while it waited wearily to be burned into the ever-greying skies. Angry that the shop his parents had loved had probably been razed. Angry that he had been stuffed into a tiny space with hardly any air and damp floors for months of his life.

Angry that his brother wasn't here.

Yet at the same time, as Sasuke looked up at the guard, he couldn't help but feel an irritating, _infuriating_ pang of pity. This guard was too young to be out here. Clearly inexperienced, the guard seemed hopelessly out of his depth. He probably had a home, with a fire, and a meal, and warm hands to wrap around his body, and love.

While these feelings wound about his body Sasuke briefly wondered about the state of the village. In the four months he had been confined to the attic space in Shikamaru's house, laws had been passed to make a Red on a street an illegality. As much as he despised the Fourth Hokage and his cabinet, he had to admire their speed.

He reached into the pocket of his borrowed coat. The fake papers Shikamaru had given him were stiff and icy. The creases were frozen into them. He retrieved them, forcing his eyes to be confident. Forcing his fingers not to over-tremble.

_'Composure…'_

'I think you'll find everything is in order,' he drawled as he handed over the crisp papers. 'I'm here on business.'

The guard looked surprised, and he watched Sasuke's face as he took the papers. Sasuke knew each moment was crucial now and hardened his face. He knew he was thin and pale and didn't look like a businessman. He knew his legs were weak and his belly was likely to growl out in protest any moment now at the lack of proper food it had received.

He knew the moment the guard set eyes upon the text that he didn't believe him.

Heart racing, Sasuke kept his focus trained on the guard as he skimmed through the papers. He swallowed quietly, unwilling to show any sign of fear but aware that the game was up.

'Official documents,' said the guard slowly, still scanning the papers, 'are usually signed by a member of the Hokage's cabinet. I don't see a signature.'

Sasuke silently thanked himself for acting cockily earlier – it had made the guard wary of causing a fuss. He leaned in, breathing through his nose to calm himself.

'Just here…' he mumbled, placing his hands on the papers. 'Let me show you…'

Time was swooping in on his back. He was exposed. He was helpless, hopeless prey. The darkness no longer cloaked him.

In the eyes of the law (and anyone else who was watching), Sasuke was mincemeat.

He was dead.

_'Clarity.'_

Sasuke rammed the sheets,

fists clenched tightly behind them,

into the guard's face.

Immediately the guard staggered backwards, dropping the papers and clutching his nose. He hit the floor heavily, stunned, and Sasuke didn't wait around to see the blood.

Sasuke spun on his heel.

Sasuke ran.

* * *

Time is omnipotent.

Time loves to draw parallels.

* * *

Kakashi stares down the barrel of a rifle and wants to run. He begs his legs to wake from their stupor and yank themselves from the dredge beneath them.

They do not move.

A shot spits unceremoniously into the air. He does not see the bullet. He sees the eyes of the enemy, growling down the barrel through the smoke.

He sees his executioner.

Kakashi is falling. Before he hits the ground his face is already blazing.

There are more shots. He cannot count. He cannot see.

Arms around his waist. His throat burns and he vomits, reactively, onto the filthy ground. The arms pull him up.

'You're alright, Kakashi. You're alright!'

He has always been one for sniffing out lies.

Obito is dragging him towards whatever safe haven he feels lies in some ditch on this forgotten field. The tang of metal – blood – is on his tongue. He does not open his eyes. He cannot. The pain in his leg is no more. All he can feel is the left of his face – roaring in terrible, uprooted agony. He cannot move his hands to comfort it.

'Stay with me, Kakashi!'

The sounds of a world Kakashi has come to scorn are knitting together into a loathsome symphony. It weeps into his ears as the one dependable thing he can think of hauls him along through the blood and vomit and dead.

Kakashi can't see a thing.

He can't see a _thing_.

And yet he sees Obito stepping across a landmine as though it is written upon a scroll. A tragic history. An ironic injustice.

Kakashi lands on his back, hard. Through the sting in his eye he can feel the rest of his body is unharmed by the impact. He lies still, the odd sensation of a tuft of grass tickling one of his hands, and breathes, though his nose, to calm his heart.

No arms come to him. There is no encouraging, annoying Obito at his side.

There is no laughter.

With invisible strength Kakashi rolls onto his side, bracing himself. Every movement causes his left eye to blaze. He chokes back a sob – the pain is unbearable – and, amidst the noises of anarchy and flames of destruction around him, forces his right eye open.

Obito is inches away. Kakashi is shaking. Obito is not.

His eyes are wide and watch him. His hair is black and matted to his white face.

His legs are gone.

He is alive.

He speaks.

Kakashi cannot hear. The noise of the world is between them. The noise of evil is too loud.

Kakashi pulls himself closer, this time a smothered cry flourishing in his throat. He is dying. And Obito is dying.

They are dying.

He stares, with a barely good right eye, at Obito's mouth, and tries to make out the words he cannot hear. These are their last moments. He should be doing better.

Obito's lips are paler than his skin.

'..wife… son…'

Kakashi almost laughs. Obito thinks that he – blinded in one eye and sinking from bloodloss – is getting out of this alive. That he can take care of his family.

That he can keep some sort of deal.

What a gambler.

Still, he nods. He had never been able to convince Obito to see the half empty glass. Let him drown in a half full one.

He is dizzy. The little he can see – marred with black edges and spots of yellow and purple – is disappearing. Blood is running from his chin.

Obito points to his eye with a messy finger.

'Take… it…'

Kakashi stares at him. Stares at Obito.

And he is suddenly in a doorway. Staring at the same eyes. Staring at the world and its red eyes with his own – frightened, exhausted - and being given the task of letting it all in.

Opening the door.

Telling the time.

Obito is the world.

The world is dying.

Kakashi blinks, forcibly, and is brought to reality with a wince.

'Take… it…'

There are footsteps approaching.

Kakashi sinks into the deep black ground before he can work anything else out. The last things he sees are Obito's red eyes, glaring at him, calling him an idiot and demanding he open the door.

* * *

Time and his parallels.

* * *

Sasuke stared at the door, red eyes glowing like a brandishing iron, breath coming in ragged gasps.

He'd twisted and turned through the streets, as lithe as fingers dancing over string with the strength returned to his legs through sheer necessity. A little time had allowed him to create a small diversion by bundling the coat Naruto lent him into a pile by a bin in an alleyway. He'd lost the guard fairly confidently about twenty minutes ago but had decided that he'd played his game too dangerously for most of the night, and would wait in the shadows a while.

His breath never returned to him, and the strength his legs had found to run deserted him as he began the long walk down _Tengoku _street. There was no more speed. No more urgency.

He couldn't care less if the Time vulture was watching him from the rooftops. His eyes were scarier than its were. He wasn't dead yet. It could keep its distance.

He found the door written in his hand. He'd always imagined it would glow, or welcome him in with warmth and loving, tender arms.

It looked like any other house. A fairly thin terrace, with a door painted dark and clean, black windows.

It was terrifying.

Sasuke's eyes were heavy, and pulled his face down. His body ached for sleep. The suitcase in his right hand was immeasurably heavy and the note in his left threatened to betray him. Perilous words wrapped themselves around his tongue, and he ran over them again, and again, in his head. His hair, blacker than the black around him, hung weakly into his eyes.

He was exhausted.

_'Are you Kakashi?'_

'_Do you have the time?'_

Sasuke ignored the quiver in his legs.

_'Are you Kakashi?'_

He ignored the boniness of his hands.

_'Do you have the time?'_

He knocked.

* * *

Kakashi lets the world in.

Two knives of history lock themselves together with a glint.

Click. The door closes.

* * *

_**Author's note:** Phew, massive chapter. But good. Not much action – it's supposed to move slowly. One of my main challenges with this story is to try not to rush the plot. _

_I hope you're still enjoying things. There shall be minor amounts of fluff soon – nothing spectacular, but I'm sure you'll read into things how you will!_

_Sherby_


	8. Fugitive

**A/N: **Apologies for the late (and unedited!) chapter. I was diagnosed with swine flu yesterday and spent most of the day waiting for my brain to burst out of my head – that's what it felt like it was trying to do, anyway!

Bit of a filler chapter but important nonetheless. One of the longest, too! And an awesome Kakashi moment!

I will try and have the next one up on time but it all depends on how well I recover.

In the meantime, enjoy Chapter Seven, and let me know what you think.

Sherby

* * *

**RED**

**Chapter Seven: Fugitive**

Sakura stood in the kitchen.

Frosted moonlight fell through the small window until her Father moved to draw a curtain across it. The sugar crystals of light disappeared, clenched by the heavy fist of blackness. Only a candle at the table remained.

Hefty, dry-tongued silence.

Sakura had been lying awake in her bed, clad only in a thin nightgown and trembling against the thick covers. Terminology spun in her mind; she had a test scheduled for the thirteenth of the month, which was far too close, in her opinion. A dog-eared textbook – bought for her by her parents – lay discarded by the side of the bed. Her eyes couldn't take any more.

As the eventuality of sleep had begun to weave her into a dreamy tapestry, Sakura shot awake at the abrupt sound of knocking.

The door.

Father had answered – she had known he would. The soft, whispered words he had muttered escaped her comprehension but piqued her curiosity. Lithely as a cat, she slid from her duvet, gritting her teeth against the cold night air scratching her legs.

The upstairs banister was constructed out of wooden rails, painted lovingly cream by Father. Sakura grabbed the almost-peeling paint with her pale hands lightly and peered through a gap between the rails, gaze searching the hallway below.

There was a stranger there.

Sakura's heart scrunched.

The man from that night.

The man from the train.

She swallowed.

_'The man with the red eyes…'_

She watched, biting her curiosity into tiny, edible pieces of patience as her Father closed the front door quietly. The stranger wilted against the wall, framed by a coat that was too big for him and lugged down by a suitcase that swallowed his arm. She heard Father invite the man into the kitchen – just a few steps away at the end of their thin hall – and then backed away from the banister before the shrewd older man could look up and see her. Father was never to be underestimated.

Sakura waited until she heard the scrape of chairs against the tart kitchen floor. Her heart was still clamping in her chest.

'_He tipped his hat to her. Raised it upwards with his thumb and fingers.'_

She blinked. He was suddenly so close to her, peering into her eyes from behind a smoky train window.

'_The man with the black hair and eyes the colour of blood was smiling at her.'_

Smiling.

Sakura swept down the stairs in a silent flurry of shadowed pink and swaying white. She focused on the picture of the Red at the train station in her mind; it was a mirror, encompassing her from every angle, rippling with her heartbeat.

Sakura stood in the kitchen.

And stared at the man who was not who she thought he was.

This one was different.

He sat at the kitchen table, battered suitcase leaning against his chair, arms dangling by his side. The way he leaned told Sakura that he was exhausted – the curve of his back, bundled into the coat, reminded her of a sagging willow in the rain. He had thick, dark hair that had grown a little too long for him and slumped into his eyes – eyes as red as any she had ever seen before.

If he hadn't been watching her, scarlet gaze vivid and alarmed, the weary stillness of his body might have fooled Sakura into thinking he was asleep.

'Sakura,' came Father's voice as he closed over the window-curtain, sounding mildly rattled. 'Go back upstairs.'

Sakura held the stranger's stare a little longer. She realised she was an inappropriate addition to this situation; a jigsaw piece from another puzzle. In her flimsy nightdress, as fragile and exposed as anything, she never envisaged that she could be viewed as a threat. Yet, for all her vulnerability, Sakura saw fear in the stranger's red eyes as he watched her. His body had tensed and stiffened when she entered the kitchen. His pale face was sharp and alert. He was ready to run.

Because of her.

She stepped backwards, cold feet unsure of their ground.

'Right.'

At that, she found the bravery to turn from the kitchen and march upstairs as quickly as she could. When Sakura reached her bedroom she shut the door tightly, clambering into the bed and burrowing deep into the duvet. She buried her face into the pillow and tried to erase the image of a non-smiling, startled face from the back of her eyelids.

'Don't worry, Sasuke,' she'd heard her Father say gingerly as she fled up the stairs. 'Sakura's a good girl.'

Her thoughts were hot around her lips. They fought with the air.

'_Sasuke.'_

* * *

Two minutes passed her slowly. Each second lingered until she blasted it away with her breath. Angry. Confused.

She heard the door to Mother's bedroom creak. Prowling footsteps on the staircase.

The noise of her surprised face as she entered the kitchen.

'What is this?'

* * *

Kakashi explained things to Anko as quickly as he could. He hadn't looked forward to her reaction to the illegality currently occurring in her own kitchen; indeed, the wide-eyed thunder in her face almost had him stammering. She was wrapped in a thick, heavy robe and reminded him of a bear.

Sasuke did not say a word.

He just looked guilty.

Anko looked from one man to the other repeatedly during the short course of Kakashi's explanation. Her dishevelled hair flickered like the light of a lamp as she studied the two perpetrators, dark eyes judging and assessing smoothly and almost professionally.

What Kakashi was telling her should have borne the weight of a gunshot. Anko received it as a ray of light, softly spreading over her pale skin.

As her husband finished speaking, Anko bent her tall body down so she could look at their fugitive on equal terms. He looked ragged, and desperate.

She knew of only one cure for such weariness.

And, within minutes, punctuated only by the pause and flicker of a candle, Sasuke was facing a steaming bowl of thick, piping pea soup.

He ate it quickly, almost forgetting to pause for breath. Starving weeks and months in Shikamaru's attic had almost allowed Sasuke's tongue to forget the taste of anything but bread. He let the soup mull over his taste buds and teeth. He washed his cold gums in it.

Anko watched him with her round, sharp eyes. Being married to Kakashi, a man ensnared in the mistakes of his past, Anko had always known to expect some sort of redeeming effort on his part to set things right. Balance out the scales. He was the type of man who paid a debt that he owed, and returned the favours he borrowed. His memories were like books in a library – he'd take them out and put them back, each time he leafed through the tired old pages hoping to feel a little more vindication; hoping to step a little closer to forgiving himself of his mistakes.

She hadn't expected a Red in the kitchen. Nothing as dramatic as this. After all these years, Anko admired Kakashi's ability to surprise her.

Of course, she hadn't needed an explanation. Despite her thistly nature, Kakashi had married and loved Anko because of her softness and prickly devotion. Looking down at the shivering, pale man at the table had knocked any questions she had to the side. Still, Kakashi had given her detail, silently pleading with her and knowing it was beyond acceptable or fair to expect her to blindly help him harbour a criminal in their house.

As Anko watched Sasuke gulp down the soup she'd made him, his need for sustenance no different than anybody else's, her mind made itself up. She needed no accountable past, no memorial connections or painful mistakes to motivate her.

Anko needed no encouragement to do the right thing.

She was sinking into her thoughts when the hard scraping of a chair dragged her out of them. Sasuke had darted for the sink (Anko was impressed he'd managed to locate it so well in the dark) and vomited. The huge coat upon his back convulsed.

'Sorry,' he gasped once he'd finished. It was the first time she'd heard him speak. His words were burning. 'I don't think my stomach is used to su--'

'Move,' she ordered, lightly pushing him out of the way and instantly starting work on the sink.

When Anko, shaking her hands dry, turned back to the issue at hand, the young fugitive sat at the table, dropping into himself, miserable. Kakashi sat opposite, elbows digging into the wood, good eye flickering in the candlelight. Watching.

Sakura lay still in her bed, wondering at the criminals in her kitchen.

Time pecked at a loose tile on the roof, chipping away at the material until it began to erode.

* * *

When her Father entered the bedroom a few minutes later, Sakura was still awake. The cold had settled on the air again in a dusty heap and she clutched at her duvet insistently.

She didn't move when Father sat at the end of the bed.

'Sakura,' he began, with awkward, intrepid words. 'Sasuke's going to sleep in here tonight. Is that alright?'

She turned her face toward her Father and studied him with emeralds.

'Who is he?'

'I'll explain everything in the morning,' Father smiled at her, 'but it's late, and I need you to not cause a fuss. I'm going to set up a makeshift bed on the floor over there – we have no other space. I'll be here. You will be safe.'

Her bed creaked a little as Father's tall body released it, and Sakura swallowed any anger at being kept in the dark. Her Father was a wise man and she understood that he was doing all he could to keep the situation under control. She knew he was doing what he felt was best.

After a moment ticked by, Sakura slid out of the covers, wincing at the cold, and helped Father compile a stack of thick blankets and spare pillows on the floor just inches from her own bed.

'I thought I'd seen him before, Father,' she said in a small voice as she pulled at the corner of a blanket. 'But he's not who I expected.'

'None of us expected this, Sakura,' Father replied. 'Nobody thought the whole village would turn upside-down. You never really expect the past to creep up on you until it's tapping on your shoulder.'

'The past?'

Father smiled. 'I'll explain everything to you tomorrow, little Piggy.'

Sakura almost allowed her face to scrape into a smile, but paused when her Mother and the stranger arrived at the door to her bedroom.

'Bed, Forehead.'

Sakura scrambled from the floor and dove into her own covers. They were still a little warm from where she had lain earlier but she wasn't really interested. She was more involved with analysing the man who Mother was ushering into her bedroom.

He no longer wore the oversized grey coat he had arrived in; instead Mother had dressed him in some of Father's pyjamas. Sakura could see the slender shape of his tall frame now, glazed by the thin material. He looked so tired that Sakura was surprised he could still draw breath.

'Here, Sasuke.'

Father's voice was inviting and calm. Sakura looked on with interest as Sasuke moved towards it almost instinctively, limbs barely able to hold his body. Kakashi watched the young man slide into the covers, making as much noise as a dying wave as it seeped back into the ocean.

'Everything alright, Sakura?'

Sakura realised she was still sitting up – and staring at the poor stranger like he was some sort of exhibition. She made the effort to lie down and wrap the covers around herself, pulling them up to the soft skin on her face.

'Yes, Father.'

There was a chair in the corner of Sakura's room – a chair that Father used to read from when she was smaller and could not sleep for fear of darkness pervading her dreams. He pulled that chair over now.

'Everything alright?'

She didn't answer – he was talking to the stranger. There was a pause, interrupted by a meagre rustle. The words that came out were a cheerless mixture of exhaustion and shame.

'Yes. Thank you.'

Father snatched a spare blanket and threw it over himself as he settled as best as he could in the wooden chair. The stranger's words hung like a wonky painting.

'Thank you.'

He hadn't needed to say it again. It made Father's face look sad and helpless.

It took Sakura two hours to get to sleep. She kept studying the bushel of black hair sticking out at the top of the pile of blankets.

She kept wondering why her Father looked so sad at the words of gratitude.

Two hours.

* * *

When she opened her eyes, Sakura was met with her Father's face. He looked tired but not sleepy – she guessed he had been awake for most of the night.

'You won't be going to _Hatchlings_ today, Sakura,' Father said in a quiet voice. 'There are some things we need to discuss.'

All thoughts of a test flew out of her head, and Sakura glanced quickly over at the heaped bed sheets on the floor. A little light crept in through the window and mottled the colours of the cloth. The man inside them hadn't moved all night. She could still make out his hair nestled into a small pillow at the top.

'I'll give you an hour to get ready and eat some breakfast.' Father's eyes were fixed in a lost sort of way upon the mound of sheets. 'Then come and meet me in the basement.'

The basement had always been a place of learning and lessons for Sakura. And, not unlike her earlier manner of intuition, Sakura knew instantly that the lesson she was about to receive would be one of the most important of her life.

* * *

In the crisp, desultory winter sun, _Tengoku_ street looks bare. There are people moving along it. There is noise. There is chatter.

None of it interests Time, right now.

Perching at a surreptitious vantage point in a half naked tree, the bird allows its eyes to roam the house where the action is. Its walls look entirely unsuspect. Its inhabitants have done a good job so far.

Fierce gaze ever keen, Time spots a small window – easily mistaken for a grill or wooden vent – at the bottom corner of the front of the house. And he sees through the window, ruffling his impatient feathers and taking great glee in watching the two humans inside flounder under the pressure.

He is aware of the other watcher of the house. Another human skipping school today. A blond, blue-eyed human has found himself a vantage point to search from.

Time isn't interested in him – not at the moment.

Time is being played with through the basement window.

Time settles in to listen.

* * *

'We need to make sure he's out of sight from the window, too,' said Kakashi as he lifted a few paint buckets and moved them to another corner of the basement. 'If anyone looked in and saw him, it'd be all over.'

Sakura nodded, gathering various bits and pieces from the cold floor and attempting to clear out one particular area.

'We should make it look messy down here though,' she offered, lugging a box of brushes. 'Just in case…'

The two of them had decided that the southernmost corner of the basement would be the safest area for Sasuke to hide. There was a decent enough space under the stairs leading down from the main house for him to live in, and, if they cleared out all of the old paint pots and materials, they could stack them up and use them as a sort of disguise. Anko had found them some old sheets which they would hang from the top of the space like a curtain, to hide Sasuke from any prying eyes should the need ever arise.

Sakura knew what a dangerous game they were playing. If they were caught, they would all die.

The Fourth would show no mercy.

Kakashi stepped into the almost clear space under the stairs. He was tall, but there was just enough room for him to stand up straight at the highest point of the hidey-hole. They would be able to move the bedding from upstairs to down here and draw over the curtain of sheets to ensure he – they – would be safe.

'Pass me a pin, Sakura.' Kakashi held out his hand expectantly as he stepped out of the hiding place and grabbed some of the sheets. Sakura did as she was told, jingling the pointed pins in her hand and feeling the sharp ends nip gingerly at her skin.

'Father,' she said as he began to pin up the sheets, 'Why are we doing this?'

She could see her Father's shoulders grow tense and uncomfortable. His hands gripped the sheets.

'I carry a great debt, Sakura.' The words pushed, like grass stalks bursting from the soil. 'There is a man I owe everything to.'

He wasn't looking at her. The pins were sharp on her palms. Sakura knew that as he talked, Father was in an entirely different place.

* * *

Two months have passed and Kakashi's face is still swollen and scarred. The wound in his leg is healed and he has been up and about for some time now. His face bears the branding of weeks at war. His gaze, silent and nullified, speaks nothing and everything about the last year of his life.

He has arrived at a door. Another door. He seems to be plagued by them. He has received an honourable discharge from the forces on the grounds of injury. He scoffs at the word 'honourable'. He scoffs at the young men carving their eager signatures into the executioner's block.

He stares at the wood. He isn't sure if the address is correct. He stands on a cheap-looking street in eastern Konoha. He does not feel frightened.

The door swings open, and Kakashi is reminded of scenes he would dearly love to forget. There are doors he must force himself through. There are doors open now that will never be closed again.

He is face to face with Obito's wife.

'Can I help… you…?'

Her voice trails off as she takes in his uniform. His scarred, blistered face; still healing, still adapting.

The note in his hand.

He salutes with the other.

'My name is Private Hatake Kakashi, ma'am. I recently fought on the western front with –'

She shakes her head, and he stops. 'I know what you have come to say, Private Hatake Kakashi. My husband wrote me letters every week, diligently. It's been two months since I received a letter from him.'

Kakashi chokes on the words he'd planned and they make his vision blurry.

'May I come in, ma'am?'

She is a pretty thing – sweet brown hair and pale red eyes that don't strike Kakashi as particularly gaudy. She gestures for him to enter the house.

'It's a little busy inside, I'm afraid, Private,' she apologises as he strides past her, all tallness and heavy boots. 'I have some family over. My sister in law and her children are here too.'

Kakashi is in the living room before he realises it. The house is tiny. There isn't any space to move.

'_It's fine. I can walk.'_

There are three children playing in the middle of the small room. It is decorated modestly, with a few small pictures on the walls and a big clock above an empty fireplace. Another woman is seated in an armchair. There is an easel in one corner. A half finished painting watches the room.

The woman in the chair looks so much like Obito. Her hair is black and her eyes are bright.

'Good afternoon, Private.'

'This is my sister-in-law, Mikoto,' smiles Obito's wife. 'And I am Rin. This little scamp,' she points out a spiky haired young boy of about four who is chomping on his thumb, 'is my son, Nakata. And these two are Mikoto's children, Itachi,' she points to the eldest child, and then the youngest, 'and Sasuke.'

Kakashi's heart splits. Obito had a family. He had everything to lose.

He gave everything away.

And here he is, with no real family to call his own, alive with no right to be.

He should be dead.

He turns, walks into the hall. He can't stay here, with this innocent women and beautiful children. He can't stand there like a fraud and watch them play with his guilty eye.

He cannot stay here.

Rin follows him, apron sashaying about her waist.

'Private?'

He hands her the letter.

'Take it.' His voice is shaking. 'Please. Take it.'

Her beautiful cherry eyes are brimming. He wants to bury his face in her hair.

'So it's official?' Her voice quivers like a feather in a gale. Kakashi nods and stares at the front door with his one exposed eye.

She tucks the letter away, into some crevice on her person. Locked up. Kakashi makes to leave. He can't stay here.

'_What a gambler.'_

'Did you know my husband well, Private Hatake?'

Her voice is begging him. He can hear the children squabbling over some triviality in the living room. He prays that they will never see what he has seen.

'I thought so, ma'am,' he replies with as much control as he can. 'He took care of me when I first signed up.'

He hears her chuckle and glances back at her. There are tears on her face, staining her paleness. But she is smiling, broadly, at him.

'I can just imagine that. Obito was always a very protective person. I'm thankful he had someone to take under his wing. It would have made him happy.'

The guilt is scraping at him, trapped in a well and climbing the edges. It will spill out if he doesn't measure it. Kakashi breathes in through his nose. There's an ache on the left side of his face. There's another door to be opened.

'He died for me.'

It blurts out like blood from a wound, unexpected and hot. The words, sharp and lingering, cut the air into pieces. Rin stares at him, cherry eyes wide. Kakashi has to explain.

'He---we--- there was a badly staged attack… we were over the top and my rifle wouldn't go off… and he couldn't see a thing because he was helping me and there was a mine and he just…'

His mouth is empty. His face is wet.

'I'm so… so sorry.'

Her hand is clasped to her mouth. She leans against the wall momentarily for comfort. He wants her to shoot him. He wishes he had a gun to offer her.

He doesn't expect her to embrace him.

Her arms are warm like he remembers his mother's were. They slip around his broad back and pull him in, sirens enticing him into their hold. Her hair – he realises he has finally buried himself in it – smells of forgiveness.

There is no smoke. No explosion.

Only woman. Only soldier.

'No, Kakashi,' she whispers, squeezing herself into him tightly. 'You mustn't apologise. You mustn't feel guilty. Obito would be happy knowing you were here, telling me this, seeing his child and his family. Obito is happy you're alive.'

He clings to her tighter, a fragile weed in the tumultuous frenzy of the ocean. Her words attack him like waves. He can only sink into her small frame, still shaking his head against her shoulder.

If there's… _anything_…' he mumbles determinedly into her hair, the words muffled but strong. 'If there's **_anything_** I can _ever_ do to help you… come to me.'

He can tell she is confused. He pulls away.

'I'm going to leave you my address,' he says resolutely, staring at her soft face hard with his exposed eye. 'And if you _ever_ need anything at all, you are to call on me.'

She is watching his face, searching his features. 'But I don't—'

'Maybe not right now!' He is insistent. He grips her shoulders. 'But if the day ever comes when you need me, you must call. You and your family.'

He didn't want to do this. He didn't want it to come this far. He reaches to the eye-patch he has worn for weeks.

'I promised him,' he says, carefully positioning his fingers upon the material. 'I promised Obito, when we both lay there dying in the dirt and the death and the blood, and he was _staring_ at me… and I couldn't say a word but I knew, just looking at him, that I had to promise him this.'

He pulls up the eye-patch. She sinks into the wall. Her gasp is shattering.

And he stares.

'He gave it to me.'

His voice is faltering again.

'So I could watch over you.'

His face is wet again. So is hers.

'So **_he_** could watch over you.'

Obito's eye is burning.

* * *

Even then, Kakashi could see into the future.

* * *

Sakura stared at her Father. All she could see was the back of his head. His face was turned away, in shadow.

'You have a Red eye, Father?'

He nodded in reply.

'That's why he couldn't come here straight away, Sakura,' he explained hastily, hoping he didn't sound like he was making excuses. 'I wanted to help straight away, but there were precautions that needed to be taken…'

He looked at her. His face was dry. His eyes were hard.

'I'm an older man now, Sakura. I can't just jump into these things anymore. I have a family to think of.'

Father turned completely, having hung up the sheets securely.

'What do you think?'

Sakura eyed his handiwork critically. 'I still think we should stack up the empty paint tins and make the corner look more unused. Just in case.'

He smiled at her almost proudly. 'Just in case.'

She passed him some tins and he started to stack them carefully. Sakura's mind was still whirring.

'How did he end up here, Father?' she asked, smearing some off-white paint on her hands by accident and scowling at herself. 'How on earth did he manage to come here without getting caught?'

Kakashi watched his daughter, watched her inquisitive thoughts probe and prod at his memories, and he allowed her some more information.

'Sasuke's brother came to me on the night all the windows were broken. You remember it, don't you?'

She nodded firmly. She remembered the soft footsteps she had to take to avoid being hurt by the leftovers of a night of brutality. She remembered the red eyes in the hallway.

'Itachi came to me after hiding Sasuke away somewhere safe. He begged me to help – he didn't want to stay himself – he knew the risks were too great. Harbouring one Red is dangerous enough. I agreed to it all instantly – of course I did – and it nearly killed me to watch him walk away into the night. But Itachi is capable of making his own decisions.'

'Where do you think he went?'

Kakashi shrugged a little helplessly. 'I don't know. I'm not so sure there are many places a fugitive Red can hide nowadays.'

Sakura finished peeling the paint from her hands and passed Father another box of brushes to stack up.

'So how did Sasuke come to arrive here?'

Kakashi blinked.

'He had some friends who… liased with me. They provided cover for him to come here.'

'Liased with you…'

'I'm not really sure of the details,' Father said, giving her an awkward chuckle. 'You can ask him yourself, I suppose.'

He piled the last tin up on the stack of paint pots.

'What do you think?' he asked again.

Sakura was quiet. Her pretty face had fallen into thought. Kakashi frowned.

'Are you worried, Sakura?'

She ran a hand through her messy hair.

'Not worried.' She sounded fairly confident. 'I just… I could swear I saw him on the train the day after the night all the windows were broken. I really could.'

Kakashi stared at his daughter. He hadn't realised how much taller she'd gotten over the past year.

'Sakura…'

'Yes, Father?'

'I think you need to speak to Sasuke about that, when he wakes up.'

Her eyes looked grave. 'I know, Father.'

She surveyed the living quarters they had created for their fugitive.

'I know.'

* * *

Sasuke slept for three days. On the second, Sakura noticed, he'd moved himself into a curled up position, tangled in the heaps of sheets. She could just about see the top half of his face; darkened eyes, heavy with tiredness, and eyebrows that moved with his face when he ran through his dreams.

Sometimes he dreamed aloud.

The way he did it reminded Sakura of her first days at _Tengoku_ street. She had nightmared for nearly three years after being parted from her birth mother and sent to an entirely new area of the village. Of course, she'd been a child, calling for her mother and reaching out in the night for the scented embrace that a child could never truly forget. When she'd awoken, terror clinging to her like sweat, Father – Kakashi, as she knew him then – was there, sat in a chair by the bed and smiling warmly at her.

'_It's alright, little piggy. Sleep.'_

His smile had eased her fear away, chasing it like the breaking dawn eradicating the thickness of night.

Sasuke, it seemed, had nobody to chase it away. He didn't wake from his dreams. They lay upon him, weighted in the corners by exhaustion and illegality and dread.

He talked in his nightmares.

Sakura had only even noticed it because she'd been passing the room on the afternoon of the second day of his arrival, heard a muffled voice, and thought he'd woken up. She'd shyly peered into her bedroom, fully prepared to greet the pale man in the sheets, to find his eyes tightly plastered together. To be met with unconscious mutterings of desperation.

He called for his brother. He called for his mother and his father.

He called for help.

Sakura took to watching him. In the periods between nightmares Sasuke lay deathly still, and she often ventured her nose a little nearer to his to make sure he was still breathing. When he nightmared (she had no clue what he saw in those dark, encompassing dreams) she stayed beside him, hoping to be a kind face when he finally awoke from the slumber he was trapped inside.

She didn't expect him to wake up when he did.

On the night of Sasuke's arrival, Sakura had already been in her nightclothes and hadn't needed to worry about changing. In the morning, she'd grabbed some clothes and dressed herself in the bathroom. However, wanting to keep an eye on the sleeping guest as she did, Sakura took to changing in her bed, hiding herself under the covers as she quickly swapped clothes.

It was just her luck, she supposed, that Sasuke should wake while she was changing into her nightclothes.

She didn't see him open his eyes, but he shot up into a rigid sitting position, taken aback with his unfamiliar surroundings, with a cry. Sakura couldn't help gasping and pulling her covers tightly around her as he moved, black bangs of hair slipping down over his face.

He was still for a moment, only moving his shoulders up and down raggedly to breathe. The noise of his panting broke through the room. Sakura stayed completely still, bright green eyes fixated on his form.

Slowly, breath still falling from him raggedly, he turned to her.

_'His eyes…'_

He searched her face momentarily with guilt-ridden gaze. He was a little stubbly and his hair was mildly frizzed from lying on it for so long. His features looked thin but less fatigued.

Sakura clung to the bed sheets, decent enough beneath them but held by his stare. She'd expected him to look a little more disorientated but his focus was sharp and alert.

'I didn't mean to scare you.'

His voice was bass with sleep. Sakura shivered beneath the covers. After all this time watching him, all this time promising herself she would be a friendly face for the stranger when he woke from hit fitful, remorseful slumber, she found herself utterly lost.

She didn't know what to do.

So she ran.

She slipped from beneath the covers quickly, nightdress swaying at her knees, embarrassment slinking across her skin. As she made to leave, a cold hand wrapped around her slender arm and held her still.

'Wait.'

Sakura turned, and looked down at the man with the red eyes who gazed up at her from his improvised bed. Her Father's pyjamas were slumped around his thin shoulders. His gaze was shamefacedly apologetic.

'Don't run away.'

Spellbound by a voice she had never expected, Sakura sank slowly to her exposed knees, letting them land on the cold floor next to the pile of sheets. The stranger gradually let go of her wrist, swiftly burying his hands in the covers of his bedding to warm them.

Sakura said nothing. All the words she'd hoped to pour upon the fugitive once he awoke fizzled away, smothered by the warmth of bed sheets and the glow of red eyes. The air of mystery she had built around him as he'd slept receded, hid back inside her.

'You're Kakashi's daughter?'

Blinking, she nodded, emerald eyes glancing up at his face. 'Yes. My name is Sakura.'

He nodded. Sakura watched the way his downy hair seemed to float into his eyes.

'I'd say it's nice to meet you,' she followed, wondering at how thin her voice sounded compared to his, 'but under the circumstances…'

He snorted, mildly. Somehow it relaxed her.

'Well.' His voice had a resigned edge to it. 'At least you're honest.'

She smiled. It was the first bright smile he'd seen in a long time. It warmed him more than the covers.

'My name is Sasuke,' he said, holding out his hand again. Sakura watched his eyes, marvelling at their brightness. 'Uchiha Sasuke.'

_Crowned with flame, Sakura understood._

She took his outstretched hand.

_Sakura finally understood._

And shook it.


	9. Brother Gaiden I

**Red**

**Chapter Eight: Brother Gaiden**

**I  
**

**

* * *

  
**

It left you happy. Didn't it?

He's safe. In the basement, in his little 'room' under the stairs. Hidden by some props, casually dropped in for his convenience. Paint buckets. Spare sheets. Kind people.

There'll be the odd dash of excitement, you're sure. Perhaps a little romance. A dash of action, racy and paced, to set your heart a flutter. All of it contained within the house. All of it safe behind the iron guard of the walls of the house with the blue door on _Tengoku_ street.

You have forgotten how the glass stings when it flies towards you. You have forgotten the hard stares of the superiors who pace the outside world with hungry, bloody teeth.

You have forgotten where you are.

* * *

The night is lit with a shimmer only rain can provide.

The abused, pulverised carcass of a train lies nearby in a puddle of its own innards. Uprooted track, seats and scattered glass windows stretch upright to the weeping sky, begging the clouds to remove them. Sizeable chunks of the ground lie unearthed, homes plundered and ransacked by wheels gone astray.

Itachi watches the smoke begin to rise into the sky in silence.

The rain is icy, and his body is shivering in protestation, but Itachi stays himself, taking in the taste of the air and the freedom he has suddenly been given. Three days on the train, which just got busier and busier, coupled with his willingness (stupidity?) to give up his seat for an elderly gentleman, saw him wilt like a flower in vile extremity. As the hours rolled further away from his sighting of the green-eyed girl at Konoha station and further into the west, the train carriage became crowded with more and more Reds who were fleeing from their villages. Rumour had it that certain countries in the west held sanctuary. Rumour had it that the giant metropolis of Sand was the place to hide.

Itachi had watched the windows steam up as Reds squashed into the carriage. Soon, his slender body was wedged between that of an old woman, crooked-backed and flimsy, and a girl around his age with hair so blond it almost held a cobalt hue. Nobody spoke. The focus was on breathing, and on the hours waiting for them so closely in the future. The windows of the carriages had no opening, and soon the space, enclosed and rife with cattled refugees, began to stink.

He breathes in the smell of smoky, wet air surrounding his face, biting at the soft hairs on his skin. It is fresh in the back of his nose, tickling his throat. His thick hair draws itself across his eyes like a dripping curtain, and he ignores the rivulets of rainwater crying their way down to his jaw. His eyes, glimmering gemstones in the dark, watch the train, staring down the broken, miserable wood as it slowly erupts into flames that fizzle and hiss if the rain dares to touch them.

The girl beside him, the blonde, nudges him none too gently.

'We need to go.'

He doesn't know why she is waiting for him. He may have helped her scrabble, flimsy dress and long, skinny arms, from the over-turned cart moments after the train derailed, and he may have stood next to her for the past three days, but that gave her no right to deem herself a travelling companion of his. His stomach growls in languishing torment and reminds him that if he takes a companion, any food he finds will have to be shared.

Itachi is faced with a path he is unused to. Itachi is faced with the prospect that he has nowhere to go.

He has always been the type of man to plan ahead. When his Mother and Father were taken away in the early days of the Fourth's reign, he'd done everything in his power to think days, weeks – sometimes months ahead to ensure Sasuke's safety and well-being. Put honestly, though, it is simply because Itachi is that type of person. He can't face tomorrow not knowing what is coming the day after. His sharp red eyes like to gaze into the future and his hands like to do what they could to guarantee that future was a happy one.

Perhaps that is why he stands here in the bulleting rain, shivering in his Father's long coat, empty hands gripping the frost. Not moving. Trying to plan.

Failing.

'Come on!' she says, tugging at the wrinkled material at his elbow. 'This rain will kill us! We need to find shelter.'

He imagines what the train will look like in the snow. Would it look so hellish, flames dancing in the pale drops of frost? Would the screams of the flickers drown in the tranquillity of whiteness?

The girl leaves his side. He is glad. He has only one companion he wishes to think about; a companion hopefully holed up somewhere safe back in Konoha, lively red eyes harboured and secure. He wants nothing else to distract him from the reality of his existence.

If he squints through the layers of rain he can discern shapes moving against the silhouette of the ruined train. They move like the shadows of dogs, lurching and swaying in the glow of the fire. Their teeth weep in hunger in the demolished reflections of glass. They stretch against torn tracks and battered wheels like clawing hands reaching to the sky in desperate prayer.

He paints the picture before him no longer. A horde of gunshots approaching wakes him. The rain is suddenly bitter on his lips.

Whipping around, pushing the hair from his eyes with long fingers, Itachi scans the night frantically. The shots rip through the air thirstily and he knows that if he does not move he will soon lie dead in the mud.

Ascertaining the location of the nearest gunshots doesn't take him long, and he runs, dropping his suitcase for the sake of speed. If he survives, he can come back later. He supposes.

His footsteps. They are so loud and sticky.

The ghosts of his breath will surely give him away.

Itachi runs, red eyes blind in the black. He runs knowing nothing and everything await him.

* * *

You watch him, safe in your room, pressing your eyes against the cold faux-glass partition that stops you tumbling into his wretched world. You watch him scramble up and down the letters, leaping across the spaces with long, wretched legs.

You can see his eyes against the white of the page. Can't you?

Does he ever look away?

* * *

Gasping, Itachi is forced to stop by a terrible quivering in his knees and a pain too strong to ignore in his chest. The moon has been kind to him and his eyes have adjusted to the black rain sketched all around his world.

He has bolted into a dense thicket. Trees the size of buildings engulf the space, thick branches suppurating jet ink from their nakedness. The soil is bitty and muddy and his feet, clothes only in thin boots, struggle to find a decent grip. The glowering shadow of the derailed train has sunk into the distance, no more than a withering firefly on the wet horizon.

The air smells not of smoke but of wet wood and root. For a moment, Itachi smells the burning of the stoking fire in his shop. The windows are not broken. Metal glows in joy as it is beat into shape. His brother squints in concentration as he carves an intricate hilt.

'Oy! Down here!'

He knows the voice. It is shrill as it dodges the raindrops.

Itachi realises he stands at the top of a slope. The gloom rolls down the gradient. The blonde woman he had pressed against on the train is at the bottom somewhere, hiding.

He wants no companion.

'_I want no companion.'_

But he needs to hide.

'_I need to survive.'_

And so, momentarily rested, Itachi begins his descent. He flings his body down into the pitch incline, pulled into darkness in front of him, and pushed from darkness right behind.

* * *

It's all so metaphorical, you see. Of course he is surrounded on every edge by smoggy darkness. Just as a silver-haired boy saw plenty in his time on the battlefield, Itachi now sees his share.

Not that he hasn't seen enough already. And the trouble is, you and I can securely suppose, that once you penetrate the darkness (or _it _penetrates _you_), there's no escape.

Do you see it? Can you make it out through the words I'm screaming at you?

Are you learning anything?

Is there anything to learn at all?

...

Is it even about that?

* * *

He rolls to the bottom of the hill with an uncomfortable thud, scrabbling and clawing with white hands and red eyes like a monstrous rat. His eyes are knives. Slimy ground is smeared across the skin of his face like a tattoo, branding him as he flees the ever-approaching gunshots.

A hand reaches out and grasps at his own madly. He takes it, forgetting his own need to not need a companion and letting her pull him close.

The blonde girl – hair dirtied now by the mud – is sat shivering in a small bush. Spiky appendages graze their bodies as she yanks him in. Itachi hopes the rustling isn't too conspicuous.

And he begins to think ahead.

The girl is talking – saying something he's sure he would have listened to in another time. She's very pretty but he has no time to notice. Despite the mud, her lips are full and pink.

He has no time to notice.

He is staring through the cold winter leaves, dripping and moulting, at a small pond moments away from them both in the thicket.

'What do we do?' Her whispers are hot and hungry against his ear. She wants to survive. She is eager. 'They're coming. Will they find us here?'

He is breathing slower now. The pain in his chest is gone as he glares at the water, skipping beneath the rain. It is close; very close, separated from them only by a shallow muddy bank that could be no bigger than five feet.

There are voices.

'Come.'

He does not know why he takes her hand.

'_I want no companion.'_

Perhaps it is the warmth of knowing there is another human at his side just as hunted and loathed and despised as he is. Perhaps he feels she can act as a distraction if he needs to get away quickly.

Itachi does not know why he takes her hand.

But he does.

Simultaneously he reaches into his boot for the one weapon he brought with him from his beloved shop (his beloved life). A small dagger.

Sasuke's speciality.

He fingers the blade tentatively, swallowing heavy as he draws up the dredges of a plan.

Itachi twists the girl's cold hand in his own and drags the tip of the blade across her palm. He can feel the moment she bites down a scream, torn between, what is to her, two evils. He grips her tightly. Time for his breath to be hot.

'We're going into the water,' he murmurs, hardly parting his lips. 'Let your hand bleed into it. We have to play dead.'

With that, there is no more time to think. He rolls them out of the spiny bush, bleeding the dagger across his own palm as viciously as he dares, and they slide in scarlet silence down the bank. They smear their mark into the mud as they go.

Kicking slowly with his feet, Itachi grasps for a hold in the sludge, trying to kick himself out a little into the water. It hitches up onto his face, ice cold and stinging against the wound on his hand. He slips into it like a fish trying to flee the air.

One last breath. Their sounds are so close now.

Gasp.

He is submerged and all the world is water.

* * *

How long do you think somebody can hold their breath?

Harder when the heart is beating so hard. It shrieks against the sternum. Surely the water will ripple with it.

There is a pressure behind the eyes, built from the throat, stinging harder than the cold of the water. One ear, tipped just above the surface, can hear voices, louder than the heartbeats. It kills the thoughts and only leaves a hollow, frightened patience.

The girl. How long can she stay still? What happens when her lungs jerk in such protestation that her body spasms?

Corpses don't spasm.

Their blood is mingling. Sinister attraction in the dusky water. It bubbles against the pressure of the rain.

How long did it take you to read this? Each word? Each dainty tap tap tap of the thoughts?

Read it again.

Again.

How long do you think somebody can hold their breath?

* * *

Itachi holds himself against the painful trembling of his limbs as they wail for oxygen. His chest sobs in restriction. Water snakes around him, cruel bondage, suffocating his skin with its bitter relish.

He is determined not to think of his brother. If he thinks of his brother he will die. His heart is clasped brutally in the hands of the glacial liquid; he cannot risk heartbreaking thoughts at this moment. He has not the strength to maintain his composure.

A globule of water invades his mouth and he chokes; it is unexpected and sour. His eyes snap open as bubbles escape him, treacherous, empty snitches hurrying toward the surface. Fear grips harder than the water and he squeezes his eyes shut, anticipating the bullets that will fill his back. His younger brother is in his thoughts. He cannot deny him now.

He is dead.

* * *

What is it, do you think, that makes the hunters turn away? What ephemeral force pulls at their minds and brings them back up the muddy embankment, satisfied at the sight of two bloody corpses in the black water?

Did your hope save them, do you think? Your love of this gentle man and your affection for his affection? Is it possible you had a hand in this?

Are you his saviour?

Or am I just a joker?

* * *

He rips his face from the water when he hears their departing footsteps. He knows quietness is of the most vital import here. His lungs will not accept silence. All they will consent to are noisy, ragged gasps of dragged in, wet air. He coughs into the water. His throat is not used to such pleasantries.

Squinting through a mop of black hair (and trying to make out the shapes of the night), Itachi sees the girl has not moved. She is a corpse in the juice.

He reaches over and flounders long enough to find her limp hand. It is still warm in the water.

Reluctantly Itachi drags the both of them back to the muddy shallow. His chest heaves and retches at the burn of the rainy air.

He is alive.

_He is alive_.

And so is she.

* * *

It is funny how Time can be in so many places at once.

Time is watching them from an inconspicuous branch.

Time watches him wake the girl. Watches her vomit water all over herself.

Time doesn't care what state they're in. It doesn't really make a difference to him, in the end.

Time sees a barn three or four miles away.

Time knows they will spend the night together there.

time knows

that one of them

will die in the morning.

Time is always waiting.

* * *

A/N: Shorter chapter this time round, guys. Can't give away too much information on the lovely Itachi. These 'gaiden' chapers will be shorter than the main ones; I want them to be confusing, only give you hints of what is happening to our dear misunderstood Itachi, and give you a different perspective on the whole situation in the Red universe.

We'll be back with our main characters soon. I know you'll be missing them.

Is it wrong that I wrote the majority of this chapter whilst listening to Journey's 'Don't Stop Believing' on repeat?

I know. I know.

See you in two weeks! Let me know if you like this little style of 'side chapter'. And whether you want to know more about Itachi's plight!

This is totally unedited and rushed. I have a lot on with work at the moment and am finding it hard to fit writing time in. Next chapter should be edited and wonderful thanks the my lovely Janine editor!

Sherby


	10. Snow

**RED**

**Chapter Nine: Snow**

**

* * *

**

It has been too long.

You have waited, seeing them in your sheltered dreams, behind your painted eyelids, willed them to return to you safely.

How many months has it been?

Those months, the ones stacking up in your head right now, have been darkness for the man in the basement.

His dreams are not coloured, as yours are. His eyes do not see daylight, as yours do.

How many months?

Imagine.

* * *

Swing.

He aims too high. Fist crunches on air.

His stance changes. Feet dance, wrapped in imaginary bands of cloth, as he aims a neat left hook.

Swing. Another near miss. Dark hair falls into bloody eyes and the world raptures at his empty swipe.

It is too much. He is getting tired. Not so much from the clumsy lunge punches he is piecing together, but from the profound weight of the animosity stabbing continuously at his ears, roaring from each mouth of each observer.

Sasuke watches his opponent shrewdly. Such difference in their statures. He is hunched; tired, like a monkey stretching at branches he cannot reach. The Fourth stands still, back erect and noble, long hair swept back graciously, immaculately. His gaze is calm but eagle, and never leaves the half-beaten form of the Red before him.

The Fourth Hokage speaks to the crowd, roaring at them in sublime language that Sasuke cannot understand. The words fall from his lips in pictures, and Sasuke stares hard at them, readying his fists for another assault while trying to decipher the meaning of the images. The harder he stares, the blurrier they become. His eyes are no good with these words.

He knows that however hard he hits, he will miss. He knows that the Fourth Hokage will always be eons away from him. He is surrounded by loyal, blind allies, whose very lives are already spent in service to his unintelligible oratory.

Sasuke knows that he can _never_ win while the Hokage can still speak.

The boxing ring in the basement is hazy, and the people around it begin to sink into the walls, their chants and darts of hatred losing their sting as the real world settles back into place.

The Fourth is gone.

Sasuke is all alone in the basement, perspiration licking at his brow and bare chest. He pants for breath, limbs quaking in adrenaline tension.

He is all alone. Again.

He scowls at the basement around him.

He can't win either way.

* * *

Three days before Christmas, Naruto finally plucked up the guts to stop watching from afar, and knocked, perhaps a little hesitantly, on the blue door of _Tengoku_ Street.

His absence certainly hadn't been caused by any sort of not-wanting. He desperately wanted to see his friend, despite the uneasy guilt festering in his stomach and reminding him that he left Sasuke holed up in Shikamaru's tiny attic for so long. He so very violently wished to speak to Sakura, almost a flimsy memory now, and wanted to beg for her forgiveness and plead for her company. How could he ever not-want to see them? Naruto wasn't the type to not-want. He wanted, and did, and acted. And loved.

He missed her.

He missed _them_.

And so, the Tuesday before Christmas – the Tuesday he always stole away from _Juveniles_ – Naruto stood still in the cold, dry air, feet decorated with a thin layer of scuffled snow, and waited stiffly for the door to be opened.

He was thankful that Kakashi's face appeared.

'Oh. Hello, Naruto.' The older man smiled at him, the one eye Naruto could see crinkling pleasantly. 'Haven't seen you in a while.'

Naruto scratched at his scalp with a nervous smile. 'Hi, Kakashi.'

Kakashi gave him a dubious look. 'I think you should finally come inside, Naruto.'

The blond stepped out of the cold gladly. His hands were starting to wrinkle with the frostiness of the air. 'Thanks.'

When the door clicked shut, and the afternoon dim of the hall closeted them, Naruto turned quickly to Kakashi.

'Where is he?'

Kakashi's smile lingered. 'Don't worry.' His voice was as soothing and humoured as ever. 'He's safe. In the basement.'

'Can I see him?'

Silver hair nodded up and down slowly.

'Let me show you down.'

Naruto had only been in Kakashi's house once or twice; usually before or after he met up with Sakura. He didn't remember it creaking as much as it did as he walked through the thin hallway and reached the entrance to the basement stairs. He didn't remember it being so cold.

Naruto unstuck his tongue from his teeth. 'Before we go down there, Kakashi…'

He hesitated, and Kakashi paused duly. 'What is it, Naruto?'

There was a quick, uneasy silence where Naruto searched the door in front of him for answers.

'Nothing.'

Kakashi opened the door, and stepped through it. Naruto followed hesitantly, eyes frantically adjusting to the destitute, low light of the basement as his feet found the stone steps. The temperature was much lower down here than it was in the rest of the house – Naruto supposed that was to be expected in a stone, dark room. He followed Kakashi unquestioningly, finding nothing for his hands to hold when he reached for a banister or rail.

They reached the bottom. There was no sign of Sasuke. Naruto frowned.

'Sasuke?' Kakashi said quietly, his voice playing along the stony walls. Naruto squinted at them. Was that writing?

'You have a visitor, Sasuke.'

With that, Kakashi headed back up the stairs, allowing Naruto to step past him onto the cold floor of the basement. He could see no sign of his friend – just an almost empty space, filled with stony silence and a pile of discarded paint buckets.

There was a shuffling from his right, and Naruto watched in honest surprise as a thin, white Sasuke pulled aside the dirty sheets hanging across a small, hidden area below the stairs and met his gaze. His eyes, scarlet even in this dimness, glowed, and widened as he saw his visitor.

'Naruto?'

All the tentativeness and awkwardness Naruto had clenched in his fists fell away as easily as stars disappearing in the sunrise, and he felt a huge grin dawning upon his face. His eyes lit up, and less than seconds later he crushed Sasuke into an inescapable embrace. Sasuke's arms were stiff and wary, but after a moment the embrace was (albeit hesitantly) returned.

'I can't believe you've made it this long,' Naruto muttered to Sasuke's back. He felt more than heard a derisive snort.

'Didn't realise you were so desperate to get rid of me, Idiot.'

Naruto dropped his arms and stepped away from his friend, grin fixed in place. He made a show of scrutinising the pale man.

'You're skinny.'

Sasuke scowled, dark hair falling into his eyes. 'Considering the five course meals I've been eating so consistently of late, I'm surprised you say that.'

The sarcasm relieved Naruto further. Seeing Sasuke as his moody, vaguely snappish self assured him that he was actually doing alright. He gave a sly chuckle and began to unbutton the thick coat he wore.

'And it's just so cosy down here! I love what you've done with the place!'

That earned him another glare; a slightly more sheepish, embarrassed one.

'It's...' Surprisingly, Sasuke faltered, tripping over his words as a blind man stumbles on gravel in the darkness. 'It's... I'm hardly in a position to ask for more, Naruto. What Kakashi and his family have done for me is already far more than I deserve from them...'

'Kakashi's a good man,' Naruto cut in, fiddling with the last fastened button. 'And he has a good family. You're safe here.'

'But _they're_ not.' Sasuke's voice was lead with guilt similar to that which Naruto had been harbouring. 'They're not safe at all. Every day they keep me here brings them a day closer to an arrest warrant. I'm just too much of a coward to do anythi--'

He stopped. He was forced to stop.

By a sandwich. Thrust into his face. Just beneath his nose.

'Stop whining,' Naruto mumbled, pulling out another sandwich from the inner realms of his coat. 'You've got people looking after you. You can thank them when the world fixes itself up again.'

Sasuke stared at Naruto, ignoring the thick sandwich being dangled beneath his nose. He watched him hard, eyes alight. Naruto managed to unwrap his own sandwich with one hand and started eating it casually, seemingly unaffected by anything Sasuke had said.

After a few more moments, Sasuke resigned himself to accepting that Naruto was the same idiot he always was, and took the sandwich in his hands. His stomach chose that precise moment to announce its anticipation of the treat it was about to receive, and Naruto laughed at the light speckle of embarrassment that blushed onto Sasuke's pale cheeks.

'You're a stubborn old bastard, Sasuke, but even you can't resist a good meal. Not in this day and age.'

Sasuke chose not to say anything. He took a seat on the cold floor, causing Naruto to do the same, and took a bite of the sandwich his friend had bought for him.

Listening at the door upstairs, Kakashi smiled to himself.

* * *

Sakura enjoyed her walk home from _Hatchlings_. The air was thin and crisp, like a tempered sheet of ice. If she bit it she was sure it would shatter into little teardrops across her tongue. She took joy in making frosty patterns in the air as she breathed out and made shapes with her lips. The foggy white mist backtracked into her green eyes and made the world hazy for tiny, sweet moments before coiling away into the atmosphere. The snow fizzled beneath her boots as her feet crunched across the clean white floor.

Reaching for the door handle to her home, Sakura paused. Her fingers tingled inside her gloved hands.

Her Father had been mulling of late over the fact that Sasuke saw nothing of the outside world. To his practical mind, the issue was unfortunately non-negotiable; to allow Sasuke to set foot outside the house – to even allow his face to appear at the window, would risk not only their fugitive's safety but the security of the entire family protecting him. But still he worried about the dark-haired man in the basement, essentially trapped in an empty, non-moving world.

Of course, Sakura and her Father continued their studies in the basement. Sasuke didn't seem to mind the smell of fresh paint and Sakura was determined that she continue to excel in her classes. But she doubted that watching her repeat words again and again was particularly stimulating; she only very rarely saw him, peering out at her paintbrush from behind the sheets of his shelter. Sakura couldn't imagine living in the same space for so long without even the briefest glimpse of the outside world. To taste the same, recycled old air and to take in the same, recycled old view.

But nothing could be done.

Sasuke's situation was far too precarious to tamper with, as precious as the tempered air.

Sakura picked up a handful of snow. It took a moment for the cold to sink through her gloves and into her fingertips.

If she couldn't take Sasuke into the outside world, thought Sakura, ever caring, then she would bring a piece of the outside world to Sasuke.

* * *

She felt more than a little idiotic. Her hands were stretched out before her stiffly, balancing the precarious, precious white bundle. Her gloved hands ached with the cold.

Suddenly it made extraordinarily little sense to bring a small pile of snow into the basement. The idea that Sasuke would enjoy such a stunt seemed absurd. She hadn't even considered the basic logistics of her actions; the snow would melt quickly once inside the house.

She could almost physically feel his eyes running from her face, down her arms, and to the chilly mound of snow in her outstretched palms. Then they ran back up her again, in what she imagined was confusion.

'Sorry...' she muttered after licking her lips. She kept her eyes on the snow. 'It was a stupid idea. I'll... umm...'

She made to move, flat school shoes prepared to squeak as she spun out of the basement, but she was halted by a curious voice.

'It's snowing outside?'

She froze. She was iced up; colder and stiffer than the white in her fingers.

'Pardon?' The words dissipated in the air, like the rings of frost outside.

Sasuke, skinny and tired-looking with unkempt hair falling wildly into his incriminating eyes, was touching the snow in her hands. Shoved his fingers right into it, like a curious child exploring a newly baked pie, not sure whether it would burn.

'I knew it was cold,' he said quietly, 'but I didn't realise it was snowing.'

'It's not!' she answered quickly. 'I mean, not right now. Last night. The ground is covered.'

She could feel his fingers wriggling in her hands as he examined the frozen bundle. It was odd, like writhing worms pulsing around, occasionally prodding her gloves.

'When I was younger,' he said, eyes on the snow, 'my brother and I liked to make snowmen on the street. We used our parents' crafting tools to give them a really good shape. Cats, dogs, birds... you name it, we could make it.'

At the mention of his brother, Sakura was reminded of a conversation she had yet to have with Sasuke. Her stomach recoiled a little as she pondered very briefly whether Sasuke would be pleased to hear of what seemed to be his brother's escape from danger on a train so many months ago. Still, watching his face, concentration etched into it as snowy memories fell onto his shoulders, Sakura decided now certainly wasn't the right time. This fleeting snippet of a world outside his own, an indication that life was even vaguely familiar outside the walls of the basement, was important and she refused to spoil it.

'I'm sorry you can't see it outside,' she offered, looking down at the snow and wondering how different his perception of it must be to her own.

'Can you describe it to me?'

Sakura frowned. Her hands were starting to go numb.

'Describe it? The world outside?' She could hardly repress an outright laugh, and instead offered a sceptical chuckle. 'I'm a trainee nurse, Sasuke. I hardly have a way with words.'

Sasuke rolled his eyes, much to Sakura's surprise, and gestured with his head toward the scrawled paint upon the nearby wall. 'You're the word girl. You paint word after word, night after night, on that wall. You're practically a dictionary.'

She breathed out through her nose, closing her eyes in a small sigh. 'Medical words don't really count, Sasuke.'

She didn't want to disappoint him by refusing his (very small, she had to admit) request. Sasuke didn't ask for a lot; he didn't even complain about the (in her opinion) pitiful amount of food her family could spare for him. If he asked, she took it to mean that he really wanted it, and so turning down his appeal for a distraction from the gloom of his habitat made her feel excessively mean. But Sakura knew that her descriptions would only disappoint him more; a clumsy portrayal of the snowy scene on _Tengoku_ street would only serve to heighten her inability to help him. Bringing him the snow was the most she could think of to do. Bringing him the entire scene was beyond her limits.

He hardly looked it, but feeling his fingers disappear from the snow in her hands gave her an indication that he was disappointed.

'Thanks for bringing in the snow, anyway,' he said. 'It's nice to know what's going on outside.'

She felt guilty. All he'd wanted was a description of the street, and she hated herself for lacking the confidence to just tell him, as best as she could, what it looked like. Staring up at the tiny, rectangular window high on the southerly wall of the basement, Sakura tried to shake off her empathy, tried to ignore how painfully slender the scope of Sasuke's life had become. She could see nothing but a dry patch of pavement through the glass, where a ledge had sheltered the ground from the falling snow.

'_Does the window ever open?' _she thought to herself. _'Does he even get any fresh air?'_

Becoming more aware of the smell of drying emulsion, Sakura made an inward decision, and strode over to south wall, mashing the snow into a ball in one hand.

'It stinks in here!' she scowled as she marched (does she realise how like her Mother she is with each step?). 'And it's not just the paint, Sasuke!'

She whipped around to look at him, brown skirt swishing at her long socks, expecting to be met with a vicious, defensive gaze. Instead, she was met with widening red eyes and fear.

'Sakura, what are you doing?'

She couldn't stop a snort escaping from her as she stretched her slender arm up toward handle. 'Opening the window, silly. This place needs airing.'

'Wait! You can't – someone mig--'

Standing on her tiptoes, Sakura ignored Sasuke's sudden anxiety and pulled the window open. The glass swung inward stiffly, and Sakura stepped back from the wall, beaming up at the thick, unblemished block of snow now visible through the frame.

Sakura turned back to Sasuke again, green eyes mischievous. 'You say you can make _anything_ out of the snow?'

Sasuke was frozen to the spot, muscles tensed and ready to dive into his shallow cave behind the paint pots. If she watched him carefully, Sakura could still see the rattled rise and fall of his chest beneath his shirt.

'I mean…' She tiptoed again, slipping her hand through the window frame and pulling a handful of snow into the room. 'If I asked for… say… a _swan_, could you make it?'

Sasuke moved edgily closer to the window, eyeing the tiny gaping hole in his haven suspiciously and trying not to relish the scent of iced water channelling into the room. His skin prickled, and he wasn't sure if it was the fear of somebody seeing in, or the thrill of the cool air floating around by the glass.

'There's just snow out there?'

Sakura nodded with a smile. 'It's thick. Piled higher than this tiny window, easily! Nobody can see in.'

Red eyes still trained on the window and the block of snow beyond it, Sasuke felt the tension seep from his muscles. For so long now he'd smelled the blistering scent of drying emulsion

and captivity. What a small, enormous relief it was to breathe in a fresh smell – the smell of the clouds; the smell of a world without walls. He doubted Sakura really noticed it; after all, she walked in and out, freely, with no fear of what lay beyond each step. But now, the cold air spread fire throughout him, lighting his senses with flickering glimpses of freedom.

Still, he was cautious. As confident as Sakura was in her proclamation that nobody could see him, he remained mildly wary. According to Kakashi (who duly visited him each evening for an hour to update him on the witch-hunt situation), Reds had been dragged from hundreds of hiding places across the village. Barns. Carts. Trees.

Basements.

And so, understandably (he maintained), he was duly vigilant. About a metre away from the window, he stopped. Sakura watched him with a sort of amused smile.

'Don't you believe me?'

That prompted a scowl from him. 'What do you want me to do? Stick my head out of that thing?'

He realised that she didn't understand. She thought he was just scared for himself. Which he was, of course. He'd heard enough rumours to know that the rumours weren't rumours any longer. But he also had to think of Kakashi and his family. If they were to be discovered as harbourers of a Red, the consequences would be appalling. Their lives would be destroyed. He knew he could never cope with that guilt.

There was no turning back from the situation they had wrapped themselves up in. Kakashi had made his choice in opening the door (Sasuke got the feeling that the choice had been made long before his long walk to _Tengoku _street) and he'd seen he and his wife Anko locking gazes in the kitchen on the night of his arrival. His presence in the basement was an enormous gamble for the Hatake family

* * *

See, Sasuke gets it too. Kakashi is a gambler. I've told you this already. Of course, the question you're all _dying_ to ask is:

_Is he lucky?_

_

* * *

_

and there was very little he could do to nullify the threat he presented to them in simply bearing his own blood. Staying away from the basement window was probably a good start. But trying to say all of that to Sakura was a task he wasn't up for.

'Come on!' she said playfully, grabbing some of the snow she had pulled in through the window. 'You can't say you can make anything and then refuse to prove it!'

'_She's lucky,' _he thought, fingers tingling. He could never turn down a challenge. _'She's lucky to be so young.'_

'A swan, is it?' he asked. She shrugged.

'Not necessarily. That was just an example. And I'm willing to take into account that you don't have any tools to help you.'

Sasuke smirked at her. She saw how his red eyes lit up at the implication that he wasn't up to the task.

'_This is just what he needs,' _she thought with a smile_. 'A little distraction will do him the world of good right now.'_

'I'll need more snow,' he said, sounding confident. 'And you need to move it in from the window.'

Sakura reached up, skirt tickling her thighs as she stretched. 'How much do you need?'

'A decent amount.'

Rolling her eyes at the lack of specifics, Sakura pushed back through the window-hole and into the snow, cupping her gloved hands and pulling the snow towards herself. She yelped as some slipped down the back of her neck and frostily trickled down her back.

Soon enough Sakura had a large pile of snow at her feet, and her tiptoes were starting to hurt from stretching up to the window. 'Is that enough?'

She turned and found Sasuke hunched down amongst the piles of empty paint tins near his bed with an occupied look on his face. He glanced over at the heap of brisk white snow.

'That's fine.'

Sakura frowned. Her hands and wrists throbbed from their escapade into the outside, and some of the snow had hit her bare knees, chilling her skin. She'd been trying to make an effort to help Sasuke, and yet he suddenly seemed uninterested.

'Well... I'll just leave you to it, then!'

She watched his ebony hair, a little wild at the ends, bob up and down between the stacks of paint pots as he nodded to signal that he'd heard her. A little puzzled, Sakura reached upwards once more, pushing the window shut tightly. She left the basement quickly, brushing the scattered pieces of snow from her gloves as she went.

* * *

The cafe was fairly quiet. Hinata supposed that it was to be expected, cold weather considered. _Hatchlings _dress code was unforgiving even in the winter, and although she wore her thickest stockings, coat and scarf, her timid form shivered in submission to the cold. Just when she started to gather a defiant amount of warmth in her lap, the door to the cafe would swing open, allowing the glacial atmosphere to creep in and steal away her heat. She had left her hair down in a tactical move to try and keep her ears warm (she'd let Hanabi borrow her earmuffs) but had to admit it wasn't really working.

She'd ordered a hot cocoa to sip on, and it was beginning to thaw out her throat when Shikamaru entered the cafe, face surrounded by the fur edging of a hood. She smiled shyly as he pulled up a seat.

'Cold weather out there.'

She nodded her agreement, sipping again at her cocoa, revelling silently in the steam curling its way onto the skin on her face. She watched with round eyes as Shikamaru hailed a waiter, ordered a mug of tea and settled into his seat, leaning his elbows against the cream fabric of the table cloth.

His tea arrived shortly, and there was a pleasant silence between the two while they each sipped at their warming drinks. Hinata let the scent of the cocoa tickle her nose, the heat of the cup stretching into her hands graciously. She felt a little nervous, and her drink calmed her; each time the warm liquid glazed her throat she felt herself relax into its warmth.

And then Naruto arrived.

* * *

There are three reasons that Hinata may be nervous, and I shall outline them to you:

Hinata is unfortunate enough to be cursed with a near-constant nervous disposition.

Hinata is now (and has been for some time) involved in criminal activity worthy of her arrest (at least!).

Hinata is in love with Uzumaki Naruto.

You can choose which of these causes her to almost choke on her drink when we get back to it.

* * *

'Afternoon,' Naruto smiled, cheeks rosy with frost, as he swung through the door of the cafe. His blue eyes seemed icily bright against the context of winter. Hinata swallowed down a choke without drawing too much attention to herself.

'Evening, more like it,' grumbled Shikamaru, nodding at a nearby wall-clock. 'You're late.'

The grin never faded. 'Sorry, sorry. I've had a busy day.'

Naruto glanced about the cafe, taking in the quiet scene and noting that the only other two guests in the cafe were sitting at the other end of the room, seemingly lost in each other's eyes. Swiftly he ordered some tea from the waiter, and then he joined Hinata (also rosy-cheeked) and Shikamaru at the table.

'It's freezing outside! I don't remember it being this cold for an awfully long time.'

Hinata gave a nervous nod while Shikamaru made a 'hmmm' noise in the back of his throat. Naruto took that to mean he agreed. It was difficult not to.

His tea was soon steaming in front of him, and he was quick to set upon it, mildly burning his tongue in the process. He decided he could talk at the same time as drink, and so began, ignoring the hot, fuzzy feeling of his tongue.

'So.' His tone was casual, almost purposely so. 'I got a letter from Uncle Saachi today. He's doing great!'

His words seemed to relieve the others, and Shikamaru smiled quite openly. 'That's good news. What's his new house like?'

Swallowing another mouthful of hot tea, Naruto shrugged. 'As far as I can gather it's not perfect, but it's all he can hope for at the moment. He said his neighbours have been treating him really nicely.'

'Is he eating enough?' Hinata's timid voice ventured. 'I-I always told him he sh-should eat more... when he can.'

'He's probably just as skinny as always!' Naruto chuckled. 'But I bet he's managing just fine. Same miserable old grouch.'

Hinata smiled shyly, eyes still following the happy bends and creases of Naruto's mouth as he spoke. She imagined he didn't realise how lovely his teeth were.

Shikamaru leaned back in his seat. 'Well that's a load off my mind, Naruto. I was really worried about him; it's a tough journey to Sand. But... uhh... what if it doesn't work out for him? Can he come back here if he needs to?'

Naruto frowned contemplatively into his tea. 'That would be difficult,' he replied after a moment's pause. 'His house was sold on, and he'd have nowhere to come back to. For now, the best thing for him to do is stay living in Sand, with those nice neighbours. Hopefully he can stay there until... well, until he wants to come back!'

* * *

Time watches their efforts from an empty seat in the cafe. Time laughs at their codes and their exertions.

Time knows that they're just buying him off, for now.

* * *

'Any news f-from Uncle Ichigo?' Hinata asked, licking her lips and tasting cocoa. 'The last t-time I heard of him he was m-moving house too.'

Her question seemed to sadden Naruto. He put his teacup down on its saucer and sighed, eyes on the table.

'No. He hasn't written. I don't know where he moved to.'

He is in a barn, sleeping, with the girl from the water, behind a haystack. There are five armed _Fang_ guards outside, about to search the barn.

There is nothing you can do to help them.

Shikamaru took advantage of the turn in conversation, and, checking around himself with thin, dark eyes, spoke quietly.

'Have you heard the rumours? About the new build?'

Hinata looked puzzled. 'W-what?'

Naruto, however, clearly understood what Shikamaru was talking about. His mouth set in a grim line.

'They're not rumours, Shikamaru.'

Hinata swallowed, trying to suppress the uneasy, nearly guilty feeling in her stomach. 'What aren't?'

The opening of the door quieted them for a moment, and all three felons at the table dropped their mouths to their drinks. A young woman stepped into the cafe, ordered something that Hinata couldn't decipher, and then took a seat a way away, taking out a thick book and presumably disappearing into it.

When Naruto spoke again, his voice was crisp and small, like a dying leaf. 'Something is being built on the eastern side of town. Right on the outskirts.'

'Well w-what's so bad abo--'

'I've been over there to check it out a few times,' Naruto continued, 'and although there are _Fang _guards all around it to make sure you can't get in too close, I've seen what's going on.'

His pause was unintentionally dramatic.

'They've got Reds working on the construction. Hundreds of them.'

Hinata's eyes widened. 'Reds? In this town?'

'I recognise some of them,' Naruto went on, eyes focused on his almost empty cup. 'Some of them were from _Scarlet Row_ and were turned out of their homes months and months ago. But most of them I don't recognise. My guess is that they're not from around here.'

The cold air seemed heavier suddenly, an inescapable mantle. It settled upon them dangerously, bleeding inexplicable guilt into their hearts.

'Do...' Shikamaru seemed hesitant with his words. This was unlike him. This was unfamiliar. '... Do you know what... what they're building?'

Chewing on his lip, Naruto shook his head. He wished he had more information to give them, and yet wished he had less. Wished he'd never seen it. Wished it didn't exist.

'I don't know. But it's not good.'

* * *

He's got a point.

* * *

Sakura had started her essay at roughly six o clock. She knew this because she had waited for her Father to leave the house first, watching him while he fixed his old wrist watch. The strap had caught in one of his desk drawers at the bookshop and broken, and he had taken it upon himself to sew the thing back together.

'These days,' he'd mumbled from behind the strap he clutched in his mouth, 'I can't really afford to lose track of the time.'

She'd been watching the dull watch face, catching a half-hearted reflection of her Mother cooking some sort of broth for dinner. Sakura didn't need to see her Mother to know she was there; a near constant grumbling about a client who hadn't paid his bill and a pair of long, heavy hands alerted Sakura to each move she made. At quarter to six, dinner was plonked in front of their noses, and by ten to, Father had wolfed his down finished fixing his watch, and was pulling his coat on.

'Where tonight, Kakashi?'

Glancing down at his watch and looking mildly pleased with himself, Kakashi responded without looking at Anko. 'A friend is reading some of his poetry at the ale-house. I'm going along to support him.'

Anko scowled. 'You mean you're getting drunk.'

Before a row erupted (Sakura knew her Father wouldn't get drunk; he had neither the time nor the disposition), Sakura swallowed her last mouthful of stew and escaped up to her bedroom. She had an essay to focus on, and it was easier to ignore her Mother's shrill voice from up there.

Soon she was surrounded by scrawls of textbooks, chunky and torn open by her eager eyes, and her pen was scratching furiously across once blank paper. When she was younger she'd seen a friend stick out her tongue when she concentrated and had copied (she supposed she must have thought it was cute). Now she did it unconsciously, the little pink tip poking out while she wrote and wrote and wrote.

She was a mistress of her own art. Each word, crafted so skilfully, was a work of beauty engraved with every incision. The phrases danced from body part to body part, joined with invisible stitches of hard-earned knowledge and sewn together with passionate green eyes. The lines on the paper were her markers and her writing needle danced in and out deftly, darning together the ideas of the essay.

And then it was half past eleven, and her hand was exhausted, and her eyes couldn't focus on her essay any longer. And then Sakura realised how late it really was, and how cold the tips of her fingers were, and she suddenly found herself standing at the door of the basement, fumbling in the dark, shivering in a nightdress.

'_What am I doing?' _she thought, registering the hem of her dress brushing her bare thighs. _'He's asleep, like any other normal person!'_

Her head and her hands were at odds. Sakura found herself opening the door leading down the basement. Her bare feet winced and recoiled at the flat, bitter floor as she made her way, a shadow masked in white, down the stairs.

Apologies sat on her tongue, at the ready. She'd spent her whole evening working solidly and had forgotten to check on Sasuke's snow-sculpture; now it would have melted into a weary puddle, and the only thing she would see if she stared at it would be her own uncomfortable reflection.

'_Sorry, Sasuke,'_ she thought with a frown, clenching and unclenching her fists to try and protect the skin on her fingers from the cold. _'I'm such an idiot sometimes.'_

Sakura reached the last step and padded onto the stone floor. She had expected her eyes to adjust to the darkness in the basement quickly, but she struggled and stepped forward with trepidation, toes tentatively tapping the floor to search blindly for anything she might trip over.

'Wait! Careful!'

Sakura jumped, the voice in the darkness recognisable but still unexpected, and then froze on command. Her right foot, stretched out before her, twitched as something thick and arctic engulfed the tips of her toes. She silently cursed her eyes, which were slowly attempting to focus in the black.

'Sasuke?' she said, her whisper almost echoing in the frosty air. 'Where are you? I thought you'd be asleep!'

'Down here.'

She glanced down and her question was immediately answered; two scarlet eyes pierced the darkness not a metre from her knees. Sakura assumed he was sitting on the floor, and, after a moment of feeling around with her feet, took a seat where she supposed was opposite him.

'What are you doing?' she pressed him, still speaking in whispers. The floor was sterile and cold on her bottom and thighs. She could almost read Sasuke's sarcastic expression in the dark.

'What do you think?'

'Well, I can't see!' Sakura hissed back a little more defensively that she wanted to.

She saw Sasuke's eyes roll in a way she imagined he perceived as subtle, and then he moved. His dusky silhouette stretched away from the ground in front of her and he disappeared from her view momentarily. She heard him bang lightly into a paint can and curse under his breath (Sakura stifled a small giggle), and then a light source appeared, from hidden within his haven. A small oil lamp.

'I don't like to keep this burning after dark, usually,' he said as he walked over. His body was cast in black and white by the lantern's glow; it looked as though ink cascaded and gathered in pools across his form. As he moved the pools shimmered and coalesced in fluidity, coasting about his slender profile, stretching up across his pale skin, like shadows scarpering from the sun. Sakura stared for a moment, prisoner of a man who was not Red, who was not Leaf, who was not legal, but who was simply black and white. Even his eyes flashed bright ash when the lamp swung across his path.

Sasuke sat down, cross-legged, and carefully set the lamp onto the floor. It made a small clinking noise. Sakura squinted in its glare, green eyes modifying themselves hurriedly. Once she could see again, she blinked the reactive tears from her eyes, and finally got a glimpse of what she'd almost set foot in moments earlier.

Four swans, made of snow, arranged themselves on the floor before her.

They were quite small - no larger than her school satchel. The snow, compounded into glittering icicles in the lamplight, flickered more brightly, it seemed to Sakura, than the stars on the more obscure night. Their detail was tantalising; her eyes slid over the graceful curve of each swan's neck, relished in the ruffle of their wing feathers.

'H—How did you...?'

Sakura, tongue frozen by the bleak beauty before her, lost her words. She merely stared at the swans, who watched her curiously; a demon from the earth come to melt their tender, precious forms into puddles. The tools of Sasuke's craft – three differently sized paintbrushes – lay discarded to one side, small flecks of ice decorating the head of each freshly.

'You think these are good?' Sasuke mused, examining each bird with a critical eye. 'You should have seen what my brother could do.'

Sakura shook her head, loose, rose bangs grazing her wide eyes. 'I can't believe you did this! They're... they're _amazing_!'

She gingerly reached out with cold fingers to touch one; it was solid and quite sturdy under her assessment. Her face, flickering in the birds' reflection, lit into a smile.

'Wow! They're so well made. I wish they were permanent, so I could show Father.'

Sasuke shrugged, slim shoulders dropping heavily. 'I can always make more. Circumstances allowing. Aren't you cold?'

Sakura glanced at him before grasping that he had noted her state of undress. Her nightgown was not indecent but was certainly very thin, and her arms and legs were bare against the cold basement air.

'I'm alright,' she smiled. 'Besides, I can thank the cold. Without it I wouldn't have seen these lovely creatures.'

Looking at the swans closely once more, Sakura almost reluctantly pushed herself to her feet. 'They're beautiful, they really are. I wish I could stare at them all night. But I have _Hatchlings _tomorrow. I need to get some sleep.'

Sasuke watched her, unmoving, red eyes now alight in the dimming glow. His dark hair cut across his forehead, tripping against his brows.

'Good night, Sasuke,' Sakura offered with a smile, trying to ignore the fierce freeze shooting through her toes. Sasuke nodded to her, eyes returning to his snowy companions, haunting in their stillness. Satisfied, and with her head still reeling at the sight of the sculptures, Sakura turned and darted up the stairs, exiting the basement quietly and shutting the door behind her with a gentle clack.

She leaned back against the door, rubbing her toes against one another frantically in order to warm them up. She wished she'd left her school socks on; they stretched up to her knees and would have kept her feet warmer. Despite the late hour, Sakura felt wide awake, and stared straight ahead into the darkness of the hallway.

'_I had no idea he'd be so creative,' _she mused, listening to the sound of her skin rubbing against itself in the silence of night. _'He's quite different from how I imagined him to be_.'

Her thoughts travelled to the night of Sasuke's arrival; his hunched over, exhausted posture and red eyes searing through the black hair scrambled over his brow. Not much had changed; he still wore the same, loose shirt her Mother had given to him that night, and was still skinny, and his hair was still too long. His skin cast the same porcelain-pale hue, and his eyes still pierced like a shadow illuminated by a lamp. Still, he'd started to move with a more comfortable elegance, and Sakura, thoughts still invaded by the swans, tried to imagine Sasuke in another world, a world with school, and parents, and a real bed, and a brother. She wondered what clothes he liked to wear, and what his favourite food was, and who his friends were.

She wondered how he smelt when he hadn't lived in a room saturated with fresh paint daily.

'_This is stupid,' _she admonished herself quickly, brushing some hair out of her eyes. _'He's a Red. What's the point in imagining him in another life? It's our job to make sure he survives _this_ life first._'

While she continued to rub her toes, she contemplated the cold, and how bitter and long-lasting it was. It seemed to press about their house with an almost languid intensity, slowly slithering through the stone structure and spreading into the veins. The upper rooms of the house weren't too cold, and Sakura knew that once she was back in bed she could warm her toes with a thick blanket, but she was still surprised at how drastically the temperature fell during the night time.

'_I mean, look at those swans!' _she thought. _'They were frozen solid when I felt them before, and Sasuke had been working on them from early evening. I bet they'll last until morning. Maybe I really could show Father tomorrow...'_

Her thoughts trailed off, like melting snow oozing into a drain. Without a moment's hesitation she swivelled on her frosty feet and flung the door to the basement back open again. As she hurtled down the stairs she called Sasuke's name softly, hoping to stop him tensing up at her hasty arrival the way he had at the opening of the window.

She skidded into the basement, still able to see a little as her eyes were more used to the darkness. The swans gathered together, haughty and inert, watching her with black holes of eyes. She darted past them as carefully as her feet would allow and came to a stop at Sasuke's shelter under the stairs.

Peering in, she could see Sasuke sitting up in his bed, thin covers (all the Hatake family could spare) falling away from his shirt. His eyes were wide and looked startled, as though some emergency was about to tumble down into the cold room.

'What, Sakura?'

She took a breath, flicking the hair from her face with a shake of her head. 'You can't stay down here.'

Sakura could just about see him raising an eyebrow, and the panic didn't leave his eyes. 'What's happened?'

She shook her head more forcefully. 'No, nothing – it's nothing like that. It's just...'

She pointed at the swans. 'It might be alright for a family of swans made out of ice to live down here in these temperatures, but it _certainly _isn't acceptable for you to! You're a _human being_! You need warmth!'

Sasuke's scowl was definitely visible. His eyes narrowed, like hot coals burning themselves away.

'_You_ might think I'm a human being, Sakura, but most of the people in this village do _not_'. His voice was hot and he spoke in little more than a whisper. The sound was abrasive on Sakura's ears. 'Warmth is one of a number of luxuries that I gave up on when the Fourth decided I was a criminal.'

* * *

I am watching his eyes, watching Sakura, while she watches him in return. They occasionally push down heavily on her body, roving across her before brazenly facing her own eyes, as bright as his own, he thinks, in the dark. He hates how she is unaware of her own body, her own presence. He hates the way the slender nightgown she insists upon wearing skims the top of her pale knees.

He hates how guilty he feels when his eyes discover her.

He hates the luxuries he has given up. Warmth. Daylight. He wishes he'd never tasted them, because they mock him from a distance. Three meals a day. Regular baths.

Lust.

The one he hates (and misses) the most is blamelessness. That luxury left him first out of the lot, and the way he sees it (red, as always), it will probably never come back – not in this lifetime, at least.

Sasuke has always had a very good grasp of Time.

* * *

He didn't expect Sakura to grab his arm with such force, and he instinctively pulled back from her, suppressing a growl.

'Don't be such an _idiot_!' she half shouted at him. Her eyes were merciless. 'What's the use in us helping you – risking our lives for you – if you die of hypothermia down in this basement?'

'Sakura I'm not going to die of hypo--'

She pulled him out of the bed almost viciously, and placed a hand on his forehead.

'You're freezing.'

Her hand moved to his bare arm. 'You're freezing all over.'

And boldly, to Sasuke's near horror, Sakura slid a hand past the neck of his shirt and onto his chest.

Time is watching with a sadistic grin.

'You've even freezing under your clothes.'

Her voice was softer now, and she could feel the taut rise and fall of Sasuke's cold chest as he breathed. In. Out. In-out. Out-in. In-out.

'You're not made of ice,' she said quietly, eyes focused on the outline of her hand in dark cloth. 'You're not supposed to live in a dark room, with no warmth or light. Even plants can't survive that way.'

He watched her, keeping his body still and rigid.

'Tonight, you can sleep on the couch in the living room,' Sakura continued, removing her hand from his chest and clamping it onto his wrist. 'We can put the fire on, and make sure the curtains are drawn very tight.'

She dragged him away from his bed, and Sasuke allowed her to. Truthfully he was freezing, and his limbs were stiff and sore from weeks of relentless cold. The guilt of asking more and more from this innocent family battled with the cold tiptoeing stealthily along his skin, but the temptation of a warm fire burned it all away into a dull heat that lingered where fingertips had graced his chest.

'We can sort something out,' Sakura said as she pulled him up the stairs leading out of the basement, 'when the morning comes. I'm sure Father will understand.'

* * *

Kakashi peered into his living room around the scarcely open door. The embers of a long-burning fire fluttered in the small hearth, and a small mound of jet-black hair poked out from underneath a thin blanket, which rose and fell gently.

His daughter tugged on his arm. 'Father, it's the only way. That basement is freezing during the night. It will kill him!'

Kakashi, towering over his daughter, let out a sigh through his nose, forcing his gaze to linger on the sleeping criminal a single pane of glass away from the outside world.

'It's fine, Sakura,' he said quietly, watching the wood crackle in the fire. 'The fire goes off at five in the morning – I'll leave you that responsibility. We can't risk the smoke being seen as it gets lighter.'

He turned away from the sleeping fugitive, into the eyes of his watchful daughter, and gently closed the door behind him.

'I'd rather gamble on a live Red than a dead one.'

* * *

**Sherbet Mayhem: **Welcome back. Sorry it's been so long. Have been very busy and have only just found the time to write! I have rewarded your patience, however, with an enormous chapter! It's 8000 words long!

It's been a while, so let me know what you think. There's no guarantee when the next update will be but now that I'm back into the groove (and unemployed!) I should have a little more time to write. So hopefully it won't be too long.

See you next chapter! Please review!

Sherby =)


	11. The Dark Haired Angel

A/N Welcome back. Enjoy Chapter 10! (I originally uploaded this as chapter 11! I'm such a doofus)

* * *

**RED**

**Chapter Ten: The Dark-Haired Angel**

There is a fence on the edge of the village.

It is made of metal, desperately hole-punched at all angles. Spiky, dry grass wilts at the bottom like shards of glass, chokingly dry despite the damp summer heat. When the water-dappled sun reaches a despairing arm through the sky, it is filtered into homogenous, mechanical dust by the holes of the metal, never allowed to touch the ground contained within the fence.

Looking at the fence it would seem that it encompasses the entire world. The split-end wire at the top twists into the atmosphere, and the view to the left and right is never-ending. It channels into the soil unwaveringly, too high and too low.

The fence has an unusual effect on those looking at it; this all depends on the angle at which the metal is approached by the eye. From one particular angle, the other side of the fence looks like salvation. Eyes salivate while devouring the world through the holes, pupils wider and wider in attempt to fit more in. Such fleeting moments exonerate the miseries of the soul and propagate the dream of hope; a scented wisp in a gale.

From a different angle, the other side of the fence is brimstone. It makes even the hardest of hearts, the ones wrapped in unintelligible words and posters and slogans, sink at the state of the world. And, when these eyes fall upon the ragged shoes of those on the bad side, they are suddenly so much more grateful in their own, laced up safely, tender sole skin protected from the guilt-scorched earth beneath.

One side of the fence gifts its viewers with hopefulness. The other side a deep, deep despair.

And there are the occasional few, wandering past the fence, who look at it with tingling fists, with mouths pencilled into the firmest of lines, with hearts hard and weeping.

The ones who swear in their stomachs that they will tear it down.

Through bleeding fingers and through gunfire.

They will tear it down.

* * *

A vulture sits on the fence. You have started getting to know him. His presence on these pages unnerves you.

You don't know what he brings.

This is one of his favourite perches. The height of the fence allows him a generous view, and all the colours of the village are apparent to him from up here, rolling away beneath the mouldy sky. He can watch people as they move throughout streets and hollows, bodies twisting and altering as they pass from shadow to shadow in the damp summer air.

Not a thought goes by that isn't watched and wondered upon by the vulture on his perch. Ever so occasionally he will take flight, sweeping across the village and making tiny alterations in his channels as required. These days, not so many people are aware of him, although it must be said that some have made an extra special effort to track his whereabouts of late. He can't say he really minds – the sacrifice of elemental surprise brings predatorial procrastination; whoever thinks they are staving him off is woefully mistaken.

The whole thing, the whole unholy debacle, is gnarled up in his claws. The extra few months of freedom they believe they have bought themselves come entirely at his whim.

He will strike when he deems fit.

* * *

The months stretching from Christmas were marked with a hot, dull kind of rain. Hinata spent much of her time indoors, watching freckles of groggy water filter along her bedroom window miserably. The sickly humidity made her more nervous and fidgety than usual; it reminded her of the oppressive, swelling heat before a thunderstorm, except she couldn't predict when it would break. She found herself cursed with an excessive sort of energy that slugged through her veins with the same inevitable vigour as the raindrops on the glass.

Her days were inundated with business; she'd enrolled on the same nursing course as many of her school friends and gave herself to it quite devotedly. Hinata knew she would never be quite so gifted a nurse as Sakura, nor quite as daring a nurse as Ino, but her steadfast determination to improve herself gave her a goal to focus on and allowed her to continue despite the glaring and usually overshadowing talent of her two friends. There was nothing wrong, she insisted to herself, on striving for improvement in the shadow, as well as in the light.

When night fell, though, and Hinata had completed all assignments dutifully, she found herself staring at the insipid, fizzling sky from her room and thinking about the things she found it hard to think about. Her house did not allow her a view of the entire village, but in the five months since meeting Naruto and Shikamaru in that cold café just before Christmas, a few things that she could not see had pressed inexorably on her mind; a towering metal fence, hedging in her thoughts like prisoners who persisted in beating upon the confines of their cage.

Her imagination, she feared, over exaggerated. After Naruto had mentioned a group of Reds building a large, mysterious complex on the eastern outskirts her dreams had been beleaguered by ravaged bodies and bleeding hands, clinging desperately to bulky bags of mortar or fumbling at oversized blocks of granite. She imagined the hot rain singeing their skin as they stumbled through wretched improvised streets, lined with mud huts and filth.

These thoughts were the root of her restless energy, and more and more she wanted to involve herself in some way. Guilt ground into her stomach when she took in her cosy bedroom, with its solid window to keep out the heat of the night. Fear countered it with agility, pouncing like a tiger whenever she almost decided to make a move and venture into the rain – anything after that was a mystery. She wrestled quietly with herself, silently torn between action and existence. Worst of all, Hinata knew she was not strong enough to make a decision.

Until the night Naruto appeared at her bedroom window.

* * *

The vulture sees everything from his perch. Nothing escapes.

He has a soft spot for Naruto. There is always time for amusement in this profession.

* * *

Hinata stifled a small shriek when Naruto's face appeared, lined by rain, at her window. He offered her a wave, and then knocked gently as if requesting entry. Her body tensed up rigidly at the sight of his blue eyes piercing the glass, dappled by rain trails. She felt as though her ribs had expanded in her chest, pressing tightly against the walls.

'_Come on, Hinata!' _she demanded of herself in frustration. _'It's only Naruto. You're happy to see him! Let him in!'_

The only part of her body to respond was her cheeks, which glowed a hesitant red. Hinata silently cursed her nervous disposition as Naruto knocked again on the window.

'Oy! Hinata! Let me in! It's raining out here you know!'

His voice was a crashing wave in the water of the night. Hinata finally scrambled from her bed, alight with fear that her father would hear Naruto's voice, and hurled open the window.

'N-Naruto!' she stuttered in a hush, flinching at the warm rain that instantly clung to her face. 'What are you d-doing here?'

Without explicit invite, Naruto slung a sopping leg over the window ledge and rolled clumsily into her bedroom from the pipe he had been clinging to against the wall of her house. Hinata stumbled backwards in alarm as he began to drip on her carpeted floor.

'Wow, Hinata,' he said as he straightened up, streaks of glimmering water staining his skin, 'You've got a nice room.'

'Naruto!' Hinata gave him the closest thing she could manage to a glare. 'If my f-father finds out you're here, we'll b-be in serio-'

'Don't worry – we're not going to be here long,' Naruto quickly interrupted, his voice taking on a serious tone. Hinata, paused mid-flow, became intensely aware of her heart trying to escape her chest. Her lips struggled to make sound as she tried to press her words against them.

'Wh- W-what do - do you…'

'You shouldn't be so nervous,' Naruto offered her a half grin. 'I just want to show you something.'

Hinata found herself trapped again. The insides of her feet throbbed with a desire to move, to clamber out of the window into the unknown night with Naruto to see what he wanted to show her. The unexpectedness of his arrival did not faze her; her mind worked quickly and she recognised that Naruto had for a long time been tainted as a Red-lover. He had to be careful when he moved, and he was the sort of person who would be concerned with tarnishing _her_ reputation as well as his own.

'_Naruto is so selfless,'_ she thought admiringly. _'He is forever thinking of other people. I wish I could be so brave.'_

Her face did not betray her loving thoughts. Her mouth chose to stutter some sort of response.

'Show me? W-where are we going? Is Sas—U-Uncle Saachi alright?'

'Of course he is,' Naruto smiled openly that time, face brightening at their incredible achievement. 'He's got the right people around him. This isn't about him.'

Hinata could sense his impatience. He was slowly edging towards the open window, and she felt herself staring past his legs to the drops of rain bouncing in from the sill.

'_He expects me to just go out? Now?'_

'Naruto, I c—'

'You need to see this, Hinata.'

His voice had taken on that serious tone again. Hinata wondered how he did it. She sounded nervous whenever she spoke, no matter how hard she tried to sound firm, or add authority. She was always the same old nervous, stuttering Hinata, regardless of subject or necessity. But Naruto, seemingly urgent and sopping from the rain, was suddenly unquestionable.

Hinata could not say no.

Dressed only in her school uniform, Hinata quickly grabbed a light brown jacket and slipped on some shoes. As she buttoned up the jacket with fumbling fingers, Naruto slung his leg out of the window again.

'Meet me outside,' he said before disappearing into the night again.

Hinata took a moment and composed herself. Took a deep breath. Re-buttoned her coat (the first time she hadn't matched the buttons to the appropriate button-holes).

Convinced herself she could do something this bold.

Ignored the ever-looming fear of her Father and exited the bedroom.

* * *

Naruto led Hinata through the wet streets of Konoha. The weak summer dusk was losing the battle with darkness drastically and moonlight was starting to mingle with the puddles. Naruto didn't take Hinata's hand as he once would have done with Sakura (he still couldn't bring himself to knock upon her door and beg her to close the silent gap that had grown between them); Hinata was timid and he feared dragging her might cause her to curl up like a frightened hedgehog.

Naruto, however, recognised Hinata's determination. He could see it in the way she held herself – coy and perhaps a little faint-hearted, with often trembling fingers, but her spine was always straight and strong. Her steadfast nature was what he admired.

It would take them roughly thirty minutes to cross the village and enter into the region known to most now as 'The East' – a mostly derelict, run-down pocket of society. As far as Naruto knew, plans were in motion to eradicate many of the abandoned (he doubted that was the right word to use) houses and build up a large new complex of modern buildings for Leafs to live in. Still, the streets needed cleaning; they still reeked of slurs and violence. Naruto walked fast, the muggy rain falling into his eyes. Beside him Hinata seemed to be coping well – he was pleased she'd made the decision to follow him.

He wasn't sure why he'd asked her. He could have easily asked Shikamaru to give him a hand with this particular mission of his, and he was sure he'd have no trouble getting in. But Naruto saw Hinata every day, saw her walk to class, sometimes with Sakura or Ino, or sometimes with her younger sister, and he could see something building in her expression that he somehow knew others could not. It was something like hunger, but less physical and almost more urgent. Some days he tried to convince himself that her face was simply changing as she got older, maturing and filling and thinning in the right places, but lately it was becoming too prominent to deny.

Despite helping Sasuke all those months ago, and despite taking a silent stand against Red-slurring, and despite helping her sister with her studies, and despite doing her best to train as a nurse to _help_ people, Hinata still felt that she wasn't helping enough.

And she was desperate to help more.

Once the realisation hit him, Naruto determined to find an outlet for Hinata's simple desires. He knew that assisting any ordinary person would not satisfy the grave need in her eyes.

It had to be a Red.

Sasuke, of course, was out of the question. He was in a safe place with three extremely reliable people taking care of him at the risk of their own lives, and Naruto wasn't brave enough to tamper remotely with that situation.

'_Besides,_' he thought grimly, _'there's a whole load of Reds on the edge of town who need our help even more than Sasuke right now_.'

He'd seen the build. Peered through the glinting jaws of the fence that Hinata only dreamed of, and then angrily met the eyes of the vulture roosted at the top.

Naruto had made the decision to join an aid organisation shortly after this. Lost hours watching humans caged like animals took a toll on Naruto's patience and although he could never really get a great look at them he could see they were suffering badly. Shikamaru had followed a lead only weeks before and joined an illegal underground group dedicated to forming a resistance, but it moved slowly and Shikamaru reported that different ideas on how best to tackle the struggles facing those of Red heritage were tearing the group internally. Naruto of course had his own ideas on how best to help those in need and held a dogged desire to enlist, but he didn't trust his own temper, and knew his eagerness and impatience could easily be his downfall. He needed somebody calm to stand with him; somebody with the same hunger to help directly, to aim the relief unswervingly at the people the most desperate but someone who would not act out of rashness or haste, enamoured by their desire.

Hinata was perfect.

Naruto had witnessed the quiet grace with which she had visited Sasuke in the long days he'd spent in Shikamaru's attic. She'd been a dark-haired angel to Sasuke as he lay cramped among the rafters, waiting for the day that either _Fang_ officials or starvation would discover him huddled there. On the occasions that Naruto had managed to call on Sasuke in the house on _Tengoku_ street, Sasuke had (in very few words) spoken warmly and highly of Hinata. Her sparse, gifted visits reminded him that a world existed outside the wooden frame around him.

And Naruto knew that the moment she saw what he'd been watching grow for all these months on the outskirts of the East, her heart would immediately surrender itself to the cause of helping. She did not possess the cold wall that many villagers were able to erect upon seeing the prisoners behind the fence. Her heart was open, dangerously so, a target for arrows of entreaty to bury themselves in. Naruto felt guilty for involving her; he knew she'd be endangering her freedom by following him into illicit defiance, but the pain of silent helplessness he saw in her pale eyes was enough to convince him of her forgiveness.

Naruto knew that Hinata, with a soul so desperate to give, would forgive him every iniquity if she was given the chance to save a single person.

They entered The East wordlessly. Naruto almost expected to have to stop and convince Hinata to continue, but she kept quiet pace with him in a manner he would venture to describe as confident. Naruto led the way through well trod streets, ignoring the boarded windows and smatters of broken glass still crawling across the paving. He listened to the soft patter of Hinata's feet as she walked with him, occasionally making a soft, creasing noise when a puddle cascaded over the toes. Weaving in and out of the dark streets brought them eventually to a small, non-residential area; a damp-looking field with long grass, spattered with the tall, thick trees so typical of Konoha.

Naruto stopped, and Hinata mirrored him. He spared her a quick glance and took note of the way her dark hair glowed almost blue in the moonlight. Something about Hinata's pale skin and eyes made her seem suited to the depth of the night air. Her eyes were the colour of the moon.

'We're almost there,' he said to her, catching his breath. He hadn't realised how quickly they'd been moving. Beside him, the glowing Hinata nodded.

'_I hope,'_ he thought, grimly forcing his eyes away from her and into the very near future, _'I hope you don't hate me for this, Hinata.'_

He took her hand, now, and together they walked into the black grass of the field.

* * *

'Sasuke? Can I come down?'

Her voice was hushed and almost a little coy, but Sasuke never failed to hear Sakura's gentle knocks on the door to the basement. She had taken up knocking instead of simply barging her way down the cold stone stairs after she'd walked in on him a few weeks ago in the middle of a training session.

Not that Sasuke could really do much. Being holed up in the icy room (during the day, at least) knotted his muscles and he yearned for activity. He needed a way to relieve himself of the ubiquitous nervousness threading through his body that grew whenever he glanced at the small, street-level window in the basement, or heard an unexpected noise. As his hair grew longer and shabbier, falling further and further into his eyes, he determined to at least try and retain some of the muscles he'd developed as a junior blacksmith. He air-boxed, swiping angry, hot fists into the empty space around him, and used a small bar above his bed for pull-ups; hundreds and thousands of them. He would even run, bare feet slapping hard against the unyielding floor until the sweat melted from the tip of his nose. He pushed himself harder and harder each day, pressing his body into an oblivion of routine and gruelling exercise, because the biting pain gnawing at his muscles took him away from himself, for just a few hours each day, and he could think about something other than the shrunken circle of his little world.

The stacks of empty paint cans became blossoming trees in the spring. The bucket he urinated in (tucked shamefully away in a dark corner) spilled over into a clean, beautiful lake. The grey, shackle ceiling melted easily, naturally, into a cloudless blue sky, and Sasuke gazed at it while he ran, revelling in the love of the sun as it kissed his skin. The cherry blossom trees that sprouted tall around him offered a delicious and overpowering scent, and there were people walking by, some content with their own business and some eager to smile at him. His mother and father admired him from an oak bench nearby, pride spilling from their faces as he sprinted yet _another_ lap, and Kakashi and Anko stood behind them, watching with deceptively serious looks on their faces. Naruto and Sakura chatted warmly beside the waters of the lake, Sakura occasionally slipping off her shoes and socks and plunging in her silky feet. Itachi watched him quietly from a small glasshouse near the edge of the park, beaming whenever their red eyes met.

Sasuke visited this place whenever he ran. And when he stopped running, when his blistering feet ceased their pounding, the dream splintered, like the surface of still water molested by a rogue pebble. Sasuke found himself, as usual, alone, bleeding with sweat, in the cold, grey emptiness of the Hatake family's basement.

He could sob, but instead he would peel of his sodden shirt and trousers and collapse onto the floor, pressing the hot skin of his back to the cold ground below. As diamonds of sweat wept from his black hair he would stare up at the ceiling and will it – will it with every ounce of his might – to morph back into blue sky again. It stared down at him hard, unrelenting and devoid of life. Lying there half nude, gasping for breath, Sasuke didn't know what was worse – the running, or the boxing. Running brought him so close to grasping the life he knew he'd lost, and boxing brought him the snarls and terrors of the Fourth and his army. He didn't know which he would rather face.

Each reality – the basement, the park and the ring – was as bad as the other.

On the particular day that Sakura interrupted his gruelling routine he was lying prone on his back, still staring up at the ceiling, silently begging it to change, and wiping some sweat from his eyes with the back of his arm. He didn't hear her enter the basement (something he badly needed to rectify; if a _Fang_ guard snuck in without his notice the game would most certainly be up) and only became aware of her presence when she spoke.

'Um... Sasuke?'

He had rolled over and clambered to his feet before she'd even finished her sentence, naked panic clawing at his skin before his mind recognised the soft tones of her voice. Sakura hadn't stared at him; her eyes had found some other spot to distract her from his embarrassment, and her cheeks glowed almost as rosy as her hair.

It had almost seemed pointless to scramble into his clothes, but he did it anyway, frustrated at an inside-out sleeve or a stubborn button. In the meantime, Sakura continued to stare at whatever else she had found to distract herself, and Sasuke fumbled at an attempted explanation.

'I've been...uh...'

'Exercising. I can see that,' Sakura quickly interrupted, finally meeting Sasuke's gaze. 'Sorry. I didn't mean to intrude on you.'

Sasuke nodded mutely, suddenly despising the feeling of sweat rolling down his back and legs. He remembered being a confident person, once upon a time, but now he was at a loss. How on earth was he supposed to deal with this situation?

'Anyway,' Sakura continued, blush receding slightly, green eyes sparkling with what Sasuke suspected was amusement, 'I've brought you something.'

In his frustrated embarrassment, Sasuke hadn't noticed that Sakura was hiding her hands behind her back. She was still in her _Hatchlings_ uniform, and it shimmered easily with hints of the rain outside. Her hair, although nothing like as damp as his, was glossy with the weather.

She stepped towards him, and brought her hands from behind her back. Balanced in her palms was a rolled up newspaper, soggy and dog-eared at its ends. Sasuke looked from the newspaper to her face, and found she was smiling brightly at him.

'It might not all be good news, but at least this way you can keep up with the world. So it doesn't move on without you.'

Sasuke's insides shook as he took the wrinkled paper. It was as though she'd heard every silent plea he'd howled to the ceiling to take him back to the world he had lost. As if she'd been there with him – really there – in the park, running beside him, feeling each of his fears as it buried itself in a foot-shaped tomb in the grass. She'd been wiping the blood from his eyes when the Fourth split open his temple with a vicious right hook. She'd bawled insults at the jeering crowd when Sasuke swayed on his feet and threatened to tumble to the floor of the boxing ring.

She was here with him, in the cold, lonely basement. Here with the naked, shaking, sweating criminal.

Sakura was here.

'I have a lot of work to do tonight,' she said breezily, as though the thoughts scribbled across his face never touched her. 'We're having a visit from Dr Tsunade tomorrow and Professor Shizune has set us an essay to have ready. But I'll probably be down here later to learn some more terminology, if that's ok.'

Again, Sasuke had nodded, clutching the newspaper as he felt his body gradually cooling down. His breath began to fall easier and he managed a quick 'Thanks for the paper' as Sakura turned to leave.

'Oh, no problem,' she had said with a smile, glancing back at him from the stairs. 'And... uh... I'll knock, next time, before I come in.'

She was true to her word.

'Sasuke? Can I come down?'

For the past week Sakura had gently rapped on the basement door, and, as though utilising an extra cautionary measure, she called out to him, quietly, without fail. Tonight, Sasuke sat on his bed reading the freshest newspaper she had dropped off, feeling no embarrassment or shame in allowing Sakura to enter what had become his world.

They had quickly established that it was safer for him not to answer her call – instead she took his silence as an affirmative and would only stop at his command. Sasuke remained silent and soon enough Sakura had entered the basement, closing the door with a quiet 'click'.

He found he didn't need to speak as Sakura chattered away, picking up a slim paintbrush and scrawling the heading 'Liver' on the wall, writing the organ's various components (in a medical lingo unfamiliar to him) underneath. Sasuke simply watched her as she stared at the words, repeating them to herself quietly, hair tied back from her face in a ponytail. He wished he could help; longed to explain to her the link between the _peritoneum_ and the _falciform ligament_ but it was beyond him. He was a blacksmith by trade. Anything she needed to know about metals he could – and would – answer in a blink. But, not unlike her Father (who often accompanied Sakura in her nightly revision sessions), Sasuke knew his mind had been far surpassed in this field. Sakura's dedication was crafting her into a talent, and he could only sit and watch, trapped in his tiny world as she blossomed.

It was this notion – coupled with the loyal appearance of daily newspapers in the basement night upon night – which caused Sasuke to make up his mind. Sakura had done so much for him; the most he'd ever managed to do for her was a set of icy swans which had been dragged away with the seconds as they melted by.

This time, Sasuke determined, he was going to do something for Sakura. It wasn't really in his nature to be giving, and whatever he gave to her could only be a small fragment of what he wanted to.

He watched the wisps of curled soft hair that pulled away from her ponytail and danced upon her forehead.

Sasuke was determined to give Sakura a present. One that wouldn't melt away in the darkness.

* * *

Hinata stood on the lip of the edge of the world. She could no longer feel the rain as it pawed at her scalp, sliding between her eyes like the hot tears she kept caged behind her will. The night had parted, split right down the middle, and revealed a rotting, awful stench; a stain, a cloud blanking out the moon with its thick, impregnable flush.

She was unaware of the man beside her, watching each expression of horror crawl across her face, his hand cold where she had dropped it in anguish. She was not aware of her own teeth chattering in the scorching air of the dark, or the trembling of her slender fingers as they bunched the pitiful fabric of her skirt.

All she could feel was what she could see. And all she could see was everything her nightmares had threatened her with.

She felt like a victim faced with its attacker. The glare of the fence, dripping like monstrous jaws in the rain, paralysed her. She could only look through and watch the shadows limping along in the wetness, backs burdened with loads bigger than their bodies. Some shadows lay still, not yet chased away from the gutters by the dawn. She wondered how long they had lain there. Cluttered bunkers, overcrowded and littered with holes that let the rain in, populated one side of the expanse of fenced off land she could see. The other was filled with scaffolding, skeletons of future bunkers or future work houses or future crematoriums. What frightened Hinata most was what she couldn't see. What did those bunkers with their leaky roofs hide? What stories could the shadows lying prone in the mud streets down there tell her, if given a voice to speak with? How much life had already spilled away in this dank, despicable corner of her society?

'You won't be able to see much,' came a weary voice from far away, 'but even the little you can see tonight is enough to make you want to fight it.'

Fight it. Tear it down. Hinata, quiet and timid, longed to rip the fence to shreds with her teeth. Free all the shadows hemmed in by its ominous height and let them bounce through the streets, spurred on by sunlight.

Never had she imagined the country she grew up in to be capable of such insanity. Her shaking fingers curled into an incredulous fist as she travelled back, back to an age where she and children with scarlet eyes played together in the streets or school yards. She was hurled forward, each regressive step forced upon her; posters, slogans, hate crimes, segregation, disappearances, crying children, broken windows, and the rain, the ever-constant, ever-wicked, coming down hard like a merciless guillotine on those unlucky enough to have their heads on the chopping block...

'Why...' she heard herself mutter, tears finally escaping to mingle freely with the rain. She felt Naruto's gaze upon her.

'Why didn't we stop this?'

Naruto took her hand, stirring at the tremors quaking through her tiny bones.

'It was impossible for us to stop it,' he answered quietly, looking once more through the fence at distant red eyes. The rain distorted them so they appeared to be melting. 'We were too young. This came about before we even knew what a Red was. It's been lying in the dark, waiting for the right moment to rise up and swallow the village. Some of us are stuck in its teeth. Others,' he nodded towards the camp again, 'are trapped in the belly.'

'Surely we can do something,' Hinata pleaded, wiping her eyes with her free hand. 'Perhaps get food through the barriers, to help them bear it, or-'

'There's a group.' Naruto's voice was hard again – it caught Hinata by the gut and stole her attention. 'An illegal group. Shikamaru is already involved, so we have our way in. It has a lot of support but hasn't made a move yet – no one can decide what direction to take. I want to work my way in, and make my way up. And I want you to make the way up with me.'

* * *

How can she say no? Her heart has been pleading with her for too long now, screaming and weeping for the 'shadows' she sees recoiled on the earth, dead and rotten. She is too giving.

It will be the end of her.

The vulture is watching from the fence.

* * *

'Of course,' Hinata whispered, soul continuing to weep as she gazed, hypnotised, through the fence. 'I will go wherever you take me if it brings these fences down.'

Naruto's relief was tangible, and Hinata felt his grip on her hand relax a little.

'I'm glad,' he spoke into the rain. 'I can't do it alone.'

* * *

They know it will be dangerous. They know their lives, so far safely travelled along a neat, tidy path, will now dangle over the edge, threatening to slip into the illegality of abyss below. One wrong step! One wrong word! One weak deceit or allegation and their lives will be terminated.

They don't care. Their hearts are pure, and their heavy souls vindicated by their desires. They will run into the abyss, together, if only to bring down the fence, the _Fang_, and the Fourth.

The vulture is laughing at them. You can hear him guffawing from where you sit.

He will not stop.

* * *

**A/N: **Thanks, as always, to the wonderful Janine for editing! My sentences would be missing words without her keen eye! Next update should hopefully be soon...

Please review! Thank you!

_Sherby_


	12. Words

**AN: **Welcome back, folks. This chapter didn't turn out how I expected. But it's still a nice read, I hope!

Aren't words fickle?

Enjoy

(Special thanks to Janine, my wonderful editor, and Renny (on deviantart she's Renny08), who has started to illustrate my story! Links will be up soon).

* * *

**Red Chapter 11 – Words.**

**

* * *

**

'I'll need tools as well; chisels, mainly, and in different sizes, if you can get them.'

'Chisels – got it. Different sizes – got it. When are you going to explain this to me?'

'And these paintbrushes are probably all too big for the detail I need. Can you try and get hold of something thinner?'

An exasperated sigh. Scratching the back of the neck.

'I never pictured myself as a thief, Sasuke.'

'One day, when I get out of here, I'll pay them all back. I promise.'

'That's the first optimistic thing I've heard you say in a long time. All it takes is a bit of thievery?'

'Shut up. Idiot. Can you get me wire?'

'Where the hell would I get wire?'

'Weavers, or thread shops. They sell small copper wires. Or just get me a small sheet of copper – I can probably cut it down.'

'Sheet of copper – got it.'

'Make that two sheets.'

'Two sheets of copper – got it. Anything else?'

'That's it.'

'I assume you're going to make me a 'thank you' present for all my hard work?'

'One day, Naruto, I really will.'

'Oh stop – you'll make me blush.'

'Idiot.'

* * *

The twenty-fourth of May was a Wednesday. It struck Sakura as an entirely ordinary day; as usual, the thin clouds above were leaking a warm, dribbling kind of rain, but a few rays of sunshine were attempting to debut, and if she walked on the right side of the street, Sakura could almost convince herself that the rain was just her imagination.

Her practical lesson on phlebotomy had been cancelled due to tutor absence, and so Sakura – and the rest of her class – had the majority of the afternoon off. While Sakura fully intended to spend some time studying that evening, she wanted to make the most of the cracks in the grey sky, and she quickly suggested to Ino and Hinata that they meet at their regular spot and spend an hour forgetting their responsibilities. Hinata could not – with her usual stutter she explained that she had some chores to finish off – and Ino had running practise scheduled for four o'clock, and so could only stay for a little while.

The grass was too wet to sit on, and so Sakura and Ino, skirts blowing in the playful wind, found themselves a quiet patch of platform to sit on at their haunt and watched the trains whirl by every now and then. Ino chattered away about a particular young man she'd decided to be quite handsome in running club, and Sakura could only nod and agree with the bubbly young woman as she described his charms effervescently. The wind carried their chitchat through the branches of the trees around them and each titbit was whispered from leaf to leaf with a subtle rustle.

Before long, however, Ino had to leave, and as she slung her school satchel over her shoulder and said a chirpy goodbye, Sakura settled down to spend a few more minutes at one of her favourite places, and allowed her thoughts – the secret ones, the ones she couldn't share with Ino or Hinata or even with the air around her head – to be her company. These were the thoughts the trees couldn't share in. Word travelled fast from leaf to Leaf.

The patch of light Sakura had been sunning herself in began to vanish, and she set her eyes upon a train in the distance, pulling slowly into her station. She was unable to focus upon it. Her mind boarded her roughly into a different carriage and she was swept back to this station nine months ago with its busy, smothering platform and a maelstrom of ruby jewels shuffling across the creaking planks. Sakura once again came face to face with a man who had often haunted her dreams. He looked so like Sasuke that it made her want to cry, because every time she was here she had to watch him board the train, smile, and disappear into a world of uncertainty. As the train pulled him out of her life and out of her memories, Sakura's stomach twisted at the plethora of doubts that surrounded his very right to existence.

She wondered if Itachi was much like his younger brother. Did he have Sasuke's proud, stubborn nature? Was he grouchy in the mornings against his own will, and would he sit quietly and endure her nightly ramblings, watching with fascination as she slopped each new word onto the wall in stinking paint?

What would it be like if their situations were reversed?

She was surprised to find herself a little nauseated at the thought. Her mind instantly filled in the gaps, and suddenly the train in her memory held Sasuke's face in its confines, pale and thin. He did not smile, as his older brother had done, but instead simply lifted his cap and watched her, unafraid of her defiant eyes. The train pulled away, as it always did, but instead of gradually fading into the distance, eating up the track as it went, the brown, shadowed form of the carriages slipped, struggling, into an unending blankness, bright and painful to look at, with no apparent exit. Like ink disappearing into greedy paper, Sakura watched Sasuke and the train vanish into nothingness; no air, no life, and no future.

Her thoughts provoked a gasp from her throat, and Sakura seemed to wake up. The train she'd seen in the distance had pulled in, and commuters were stepping off wearily, eager for their homes. The sun was all gone and the hoary air perspired.

Gripping her thoughts aggressively and forbidding them to haunt her in such a way, Sakura convinced (pleaded with) herself not to look at any of the windows of the train. There was no security to be found behind those panels of glass. Only the frightful, ever-moving memories on the other side.

As she began her walk down the grassy hill back into the streets of town, Sakura noticed a chain of movement winding in and out of some of the streets. She was too far away to really tell what it was, even squinting her sharp eyes; dashes of rain fought their way in through her eyelashes and made it hard to really focus on the specks moving along in the distance. She increased the pace of her footsteps across the hot grass and soon found herself weaving through soggy streets towards the river that ran through Konoha.

Sakura pointedly ignored any _anti-rouge_ posters glaring down at her from the windows of shops or houses. To her, they were ridiculous; xenophobic, stereotypical slogans designed to dupe only the stupidest of citizens into believing that Reds really _were _inferior. She hated herself for once wondering at their words, having been too young to face them with the determined intelligence she had now. Even in her nursing classes she was taught that a Red was a rat – a selfish creature, basking in the unfair wealth of its own blood ('Recent scientific and historical theory,' said Professor Shizune, 'suggests that Reds actually stole their "superior" blood via transplant from an ancient tribe – the peoples of whom today's Leaf Villagers are said to have descended!'), chuckling at the misfortunes of others and plotting great things for its own weak species. The Red had a large nose, and bright eyes, which it used to deceive and connive. Its hair was dark – the darker the worse – from the time it spent hiding in the shadows of history, waiting for the moment to overthrow the rule of the just and implement the cruel, selfish laws of Red tradition. Its spine was curved, its teeth sharp, and its nails long and ready to fight. It thrived on the tragedies of those around it, stole from the dead, and hated everyone and everything that wasn't Red in origin. So her textbooks – and so her teachers – said.

Once again, Sakura rolled her eyes. She loved her nursing classes – she really, really did – but how she hated the repetitive, biologically unsound, propaganda-hyped rubbish they tried to force-feed her. It was all about _words_, she reflected as she walked, stared at by the infamous Reds on numerous window-posters. She knew their ruby eyes didn't hate her. They hated the words crawling up from the dank ground, festering in the soil and in the grass and poisoning the greenery, choking the few Reds that remained and feeding the self-righteous Leaf citizens with their desire for superiority. She could just see them, those horrible words:

T H I E V I N G

D E S P I C A B L E

V I L E

P L O T T I N G

D I S E A S E

P L A G U E

E R A D I C A T E

and she watched as they were chewed up between the white, rich teeth of the Leaf. The words dissolved and were broken up but the meaning bred, settling in the stomachs of those who stuffed themselves, greedy with ambition, and growing like a malign ulcer, slowly crushing the other organs to death with its inexorable weight.

Sakura, the wordsmith, the girl who painted word after word, night after night, was beginning to realise the true power of language.

They taught her to heal. They gave her the power to forge her own skill – even her own career – and they placed in her hands the ability to save another person's life. They let her express her love for her parents, let her share in her friends' woes and joys, and even helped the man in the basement, who, without the words of the news, would be lost in a small, cavernous existence as the world rolled away from him.

How could words that healed also be so destructive? How could words that gave Sakura so much power strip others of their right to live a peaceful existence? How could words that allowed love to be expressed generate so much bitterness? How could words that brought Sasuke out of the basement also hem him in, back to the wall?

How could such words teach hate?

It was a flawless dichotomy and Sakura knew she would never understand it. The malleable, disloyal nature of language was an enemy she could hardly defeat. She was one. They were thousands, millions, billions. But she was so thankful that she had woken up to their power before she too had been convinced that all Reds were rats, and all rats brought plague, and so all rats should be annihilated.

Sakura turned a corner.

* * *

Time is watching and is intrigued by her efforts to defy the empire of words she lives in.

Time wonders how deep her defiance runs.

* * *

She was met with a familiar view; Konoha River continued to trundle along, its banks sometimes bursting and burping with the influx of rain. The willow trees that wept beside the waters continued to grow, and the grass, usually yellowing a little in the swelling heat, was a thick, nourished green.

Sakura's route had brought her out near the wooden bridge that crossed the river, and it was here that the major difference to her usual picture of the riverbank lay. For on the bridge – and stemming from it, on both sides – was a long line of people, stinking, dressed in the thinnest of rags or shreds of paper. None of them looked up. To Sakura's eyes, the world beyond continued to move in bright, legitimate Technicolor while this small, unlawful section radiated an insipid, gaunt black and white. She couldn't count how many pairs of dragging, sore-ridden feet there were but she guessed at more than fifty. Each gaze watched the ground, assailing it with a plea and a prayer for swallowing. And each gaze pierced the shroud of hustling grey that suffocated this image – for each gaze was terminally, undeniably Red.

A few _Fang_ guards – wearing more stars on their uniformed shoulders than the ones Sakura was used to seeing – herded the cattle along. They carried small handguns and their faces were mean and dark. From their mouths orders barked, treacherous words that bounced from the shoulders of the skinny victims. The fresh, vigorous scent that the river usually radiated was mingled with the faint smell of soil on skin, and sickness. Sakura suddenly felt itchy, but resisted the urge to scratch.

Her head was filled with the thoughts of two men. Each face in the crowd before her morphed into theirs, fluctuating wildly. One was safe, she convinced herself. One was safe in the basement, in the secret place, away from the world.

But one was not.

She hunted him, just like the rest of the world, green eyes assailing each hobbling Red as it passed her, searching for the right shape, the right hue of skin, the right darkness of hair. Each heartbreaking face she scoured through left her feeling guilty and disappointed.

Uchiha Itachi was not among this cast of criminals.

As the last Red stumbled from wooden bridge to wet grass, Sakura turned herself away. She'd held herself upright and searched valiantly for Itachi in the face of the sadness threatening to force its way from her stomach to her throat; she had held fast against the trembles of mindless blame and uncontrollable shame. Her healing hands had stayed by her sides, resiliently, as the Reds crawled by her in the direction of the east of Konoha.

Such stillness was a facade she could not maintain.

Her last act of defiance against her emotions was to count to ten before she allowed herself to cry. It gave the _Fang_ guards time to move beyond her without suspicion. She'd almost managed a quick salute and a 'Hail, Orochimaru' as they'd passed but couldn't quite bring her elbow to bend as she watched the captive Reds. They were already bent double – triple, some of them. Her contribution would only serve to cripple them further.

Sakura ignored the fact that the first tear fell as she mouthed the word 'nine' to herself. By 'ten' her shivering fingers had found their way to her face and she was buried in them.

By 'thirteen' she was running home, inexplicably desperate for the presence of another criminal.

* * *

You don't need to tell me that 'thirteen' is 'unlucky for some'. I already know.

And I know who it's unlucky for.

* * *

Kakashi was just on his way out. In his right hand he held a book; very occasionally he borrowed them from his own bookshop and brought them home to distract himself when the whispering darkness settled around him. He was careful not to crinkle the spine of the book – the smallest things could affect sales, these days. His wife argued that a well-creased spine was evidence of a well-read, well-written book, but Kakashi knew that not all customers thought the same way as Anko did.

He threw his black overcoat casually over his left arm (the days were starting to warm up, despite the dampness) in case it rained again later in the day, and was reaching for the handle when the door swept open, causing him to stumble backwards blindly. A hurricane blew in, all pink and tears, and threw itself into him.

He dropped the book. He dropped the coat.

Kakashi held his daughter as she shed tears he didn't understand onto his arms.

His arms were not fickle. His arms would always, always support her. They could not hurt or deceive. Slender hands clutched dearly at the material of the back of his shirt, and Kakashi watched the top of Sakura's head as it furrowed into his ribcage. Sometimes he found it hard to believe she was sixteen years old. Right now, holding her shaking form as she clung to him, he could only see a tiny girl, big green eyes scrunched up in fear of the whole world.

'Sakura,' he said gently, after a few moments. 'What is it? What's wrong?'

He noticed his daughter's leg as it suddenly poked out behind her. Her foot hovered around for a second, as though looking for something, before finding the open door and kicking it shut, sealing them in from the world.

Kakashi then knew what was wrong with his daughter.

'There are Reds being marched through the streets,' came her stifled voice. 'Like herds of cattle.'

He was proud – so proud – that Sakura had hammered the door shut.

'They were all... ragged and bent over... they couldn't even lift their feet off the ground...'

As much as he'd love to soothe his daughter as best he could (smooth down her hair, wipe away the tears, distract her with the words on the basement wall) Kakashi knew he could not. The crumples and creases in their reality were so squirmingly large that they could not be squashed by tender fantasies or delusions. Thoughts of world much better than this did nothing but haunt those still caught up in the bed sheets of this one, thrashing and coming face to face with the darkness of the creased fabric in the night.

'Where were they going?'

His question, soft and firm, brought her face from his chest. The surface of her eyes was moving, swaying with the tide of tears pressing against the air.

'I don't know.' The pale skin of her face was blotchy and red. It clashed with her hair. 'Towards the east.'

Silence fell, compressed between their bodies. Sakura buried her head once more in the folds of her Father, while Kakashi stared at the front door with the one blameless eye. The other eye burned behind its patch.

It was hard for him to break the silence. It was comforting in its emptiness. Kakashi forced the words in his throat to form shapes on his lips.

'These eyes of yours, Sakura,' he tilted her face up to his, 'are very beautiful. And it's not easy for me to let you look at the things outside this door. This world is an ugly place, and we're caught up in it.'

He pulled out of her grasp, holding her by the shoulders with his great, bear-like limbs.

'But these beautiful eyes you've got need to see everything for what it is.' Kakashi felt like he was saying goodbye, in a way. 'I can't keep the world hidden from you, like a secret. It wouldn't be fair.'

Sakura wiped her face with the back of her hand. Her eyes were clear and wet, like a willow tree in the rain.

'The _world_ can't keep the world secret anymore, Father,' she muttered miserably. 'It's bursting at the seams, spilling into us. And I want to do something to stop it – to block it out.'

Her heart was hurting her. Kakashi could see it, throbbing against her ribs, begging for unconsciousness. He smiled.

'We've got our own secrets. The ones we keep from the world. And as long as we don't let them spill out the door, then we'll have something to heal our hearts when they're breaking.'

Tears came again, and once more Kakashi found his adopted daughter curling into him, as though he were a shelter from the most torrential clouds.

'You can't bear the burden of this world alone,' he spoke into her hair. Her fingers clutched him so tightly.

'We bear it together.'

Her choking sob almost brought tears to his own eyes. The innocence he had idolised as she grew up was gone, replaced with the bravery and guilt of a good, good person, and this thought tugged at his soul.

'I think,' he spoke softly, 'it's time for you to visit our biggest secret, and tell him about the face you were looking for in that group of Reds.'

Sakura looked startled, and yet Kakashi could tell she was not truly surprised. She didn't need to mention Itachi for him to know that she felt she owed Sasuke some debt in finding his brother for him. He couldn't quite understand her motives, but her face shadowed with the grim grey of responsibility whenever it came up in conversation.

'It's not your job to find Itachi, you know,' he offered Sakura another smile. 'Like I said, you can't bear all of this on your own. We're not the only ones in this world hiding a Red in the basement. We're not the only ones who can see what's really happening to us.'

She seemed calmer, and the tears flowed hesitantly now, falling awkwardly from the edges of her eyelashes. The green in her gaze was brilliant.

'Our secret is like a stitch,' she said, straightening her shoulders. 'It's keeping us all together while the world falls down.'

Kakashi poked her on the nose. 'You're so poetic, Piggy.'

* * *

She knocked. He didn't answer. She entered.

Sasuke knew something was different about Sakura the moment she walked through the basement door. It was in the sound of her footsteps. She usually slipped down the stairs as though they were ice; light and slippery. Today her feet were stone on stone, weighted and anticipatory. It was enough to cause Sasuke to emerge from his make-shift bedroom beneath the stairs and look at her before her heavy feet touched the floor.

Her face was red from crying – he could see it in the fading afternoon light that wept through the southern window. Her body was stiff and tense, bracing itself for some onslaught of wind. Before he could even string the words together to ask what was wrong, she jumped in, words head-first, and beat him to it.

'I need to speak to you about something.'

Without waiting for permission to be granted, she slid past him to his bed. Sasuke's red eyes watched her in confusion masked as well as it could be. Sakura slipped through the hanging covers and sank onto the edge of his mattress, wedging herself into the drab sheets. His stomach coiled uncomfortably, and Sasuke had to force his legs to take him to her. His head was flooded with a thousand questions: _What's happened Is somebody dead Is this about me Am I leaving Is Kakashi okay or Anko or Hinata How close do I sit What do I do Why is she crying Do I touch her hand with my hand?_

She cut his questions dead with one dull, blistering phrase.

'It's about your brother.'

For a moment his world went blank white, gripped in the hot flare of panic. Those words, so unexplained and dripping, were a gunshot.

_He can't be dead He _can't _be dead He _**can't**_ be dead_

Green eyes pierced the blank canvas lying over his vision and Sasuke returned to the basement. Her pink lips, swollen with hot upset, moved slowly, bending under her teeth, but her words flew by him like bolts of lightning.

'Your brother came here on the night when all the windows were broken. You remember it, don't you?'

He nodded numbly. He couldn't process properly.

_Itachi was here?_

'He came here to beg Father to take you in. I saw him in the hallway.'

The last time Sasuke had seen his brother had been hours before as he'd left him behind in a rain of chaos and glass. More questions filled his head until he felt his skull was fracturing.

His mouth made words his mind could not grasp. 'Was he alright? What time was he here?'

Strange, how calm he sounded to himself. He knew his eyes gave away his terror. He didn't care.

Sakura swallowed, and rubbed her right eye with a balled up fist. 'He seemed tired. I could hear it. And he was soaking wet. But he wasn't injured, as far as I could see. He spoke to Father quickly and then left. It was very late.'

'Do you know where he went?' His words were hot and quick, dark clouds rolling through thunder.

The shake of her head pierced him, again.

_Why is she telling me this? What's pushed her to it?_

'But...'

_Why is she speaking this like it's a confession? Why does she feel so guilty?_

Sakura's skin was shaking. He could see the trembles running through the bangs of hair that fell into her face.

'I saw him.' Her words were cracking. She was folding into herself. 'I saw him the next day. On the train.'

He felt like he was falling backwards. The blank white returned to him again, punctuated with flashes of Itachi's face, drawn and tired behind a thick glass window.

_He got out. He got _out_. _

The face pulled away, through the blankness, shrinking and twisting into smoke. Sasuke was watching Sakura again as she trembled. A bitter half-laugh found her mouth.

'I bumped into him, actually. He's very tall.'

Sasuke's throat was empty. There were no words clogged in a queue, festering while they waited for escape.

_He got out._

Sakura seemed to take his vegetated silence as anger. She stuttered, and grabbed one of his hands, which were clutching the sheets beneath them in a white-hot clasp.

'I didn't really understand how important it was back then... and I was with friends, so I could hardly pull him off the train without raising suspicion, and ever since I've been absolutely _hunting _for him, Sasuke, I've been _hunting_ his face wherever I go. Today I saw a group of Reds being marched along by _Fang_ guards, and they were dying, really dying, and I didn't want to look at them but if there was the _slightest _chance he could be in there with them...'

She was crying too much to keep going. Sasuke could see the guilt she had invented filtering through her skin into the air. He couldn't understand how – or why – she had placed the responsibility of finding his brother onto her own slender shoulders. Her fist was gripped around his and tears fell onto their hands.

'That's what started this?' He was calm again. His stomach was still. The dread had died in the face of her distress. 'You saw those Reds, and my brother wasn't there? That's what this is about?'

Sakura's head dropped to her chest, and her bright eyes squeezed shut. Tears still escaped, squashing themselves out through her eyelashes determinedly.

'If I'd just stopped him getting on that train...' Her voice was thick and incensed. 'I _knew_ who he was, even if I didn't know you. _Why_ didn't I help him? How could I just let him disappear into th-'

Her grief was terminated as Sasuke removed his hand from hers and placed it over her mouth. Her tongue caught one of his fingers as they pressed into her. Sasuke knew it would taste of her tears. Her eyes, wild and pouring, widened.

Their faces were close, daring. Her hot breath filtered through the gaps in his fingers. He could feel her under his skin.

'Thank you, Sakura.'

She looked lost. But his words opened a release in her shoulders. The stiffness leaked out of them with an almost audible 'gush'. Sasuke could feel her lips forming questions against his hand. His words came easy, now.

'He got out. You saw him – he actually got out of this village.' He was smiling. Incredulity bounced from Sakura's eyes. 'Wherever he is now, it's _got to _be better than being here. You never knew Itachi – he's resourceful, and he's smart.'

* * *

He's not far off the mark. Itachi has recently escaped, blonde woman in tow, from a farm surrounded by _Fang_. He and the girl are living in a forest, with a small resistance group of Reds, and proudly survived their first winter. Perhaps you will meet them again, soon.

Resourceful indeed.

* * *

The smile on Sasuke's face was quite unusual to Sakura. He was usually straight-laced, and even a grin here and there was out of the ordinary. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes struck a simple, unfamiliar note in her chest.

'You've kept this to yourself, all this time?' he said quietly. 'Feeling guilty for not dragging him off that train?'

Her nod made him frown.

'Stupid. You've already saved my life. What do you have to be guilty about?'

They were drawing closer. The dull afternoon light was fading into darkness. It reflected from their bodies in its dimness.

Their foreheads touched with a tiny, nervous bump. Their hair mingled instantly, a fusion of black and rose streaks. Sasuke removed his hand from Sakura's lips and dropped it, finding her fingers again. Their eyes did not falter.

'You need to understand.' Sasuke spoke softly. The breath of his words touched her lips, flushed and tentative. 'You can't keep doing everything for everybody. You can't keep feeling guilty because you don't have the power to save the whole world. You can't be responsible for each and every Red on the planet.'

Tears were rolling from her eyes, but they moved with a cool relief down her cheeks, collecting at her chin and forming tiny buds.

'I've lived in this village,' she said, bravely, unable to just drop the feeling of culpability. 'I've been part of it as it's grown. I have to take _some_ responsibility for it. I have to be responsible for _something_.'

'But you are, Sakura.' Sasuke laughed again, quietly. 'You're responsible for _me_. Aren't I enough for you?'

* * *

Even Time loses track of how long they stay there, like that, heads touching, lips achingly close, eyes locked. Eventually the tears slow and stop. Eventually the guilt ebbs away, like a frivolous date drawn into sand, engulfed by hungry froth.

There are some moments Time really appreciates. Time wishes they could be captured in a frame, uninterrupted.

Time promises you that he's not all cold and calculation. There's a little love left in his heart, too.

* * *

But you know never to believe him, right? What have I told you about _words_?

* * *

**AN: **In the words of the mighty Eminem:

"_I guess words are a motherfucker, they can be great,  
Or they can degrade, or even worse, they can teach hate;  
It's like these kids hang on every single statement we make."_

Amen.


	13. FOX

**A/N: **Thanks as always to the wonderful and fantastic Janine for the spiffy edit, and, as mentioned in the previous chapter, thanks to Renny for helping me stay motivated and for illustrating my work (see w w w. Renny08 . deviantart . com and look for the pictures entitled 'Secret Words' and 'Birthday'. There's more to come!). Massive thanks to all reviewers as well – your reviews are my drug of choice. I'm never kicking the habit.

* * *

**Red 12: FOX**

Welcome back, friends! Time here, trying a new approach to reach out to you through the glass screen you're staring at. I figure it's hard for us to connect, considering that I'm just a vulture and all, and the most I can really do is peck at the inside of your monitor until the words fidget through the cracks in the hardware. I can flap my wings but you'll probably just think it's the fan inside your computer. But you can hear me like this, and I suppose, looking back at the earlier chapters of this story, I've been a little threatening. My words have been... well, _ominous_! And I certainly wouldn't want you to think that all I'm good for is scaring the readership. I'm not just a plot device! I'm not just a tension-builder!

I'm your buddy! Your amigo, your confidante, your brother and your pal!

I'm your friend!

* * *

You've wised up to him by now. Surely. An unknown prophet once noted that 'Time is like a handful of sand- the tighter you grasp it, the faster it runs through your fingers'.

Do you really want him running around?

* * *

Ignore the author – she's out to get me, she really is. Don't know what I've done to deserve it. Anyway, on with the story! I'm sure you can't wait to find out what happens to dear little Sakura, and our fighter, Sasuke, down in his rat-hole. And what of Kakashi? Or Naruto? Or Itachi?

First, we must rediscover a moment from the past chapter that probably escaped your notice. It wasn't really important in the face of all the heightened guilt and marching Reds. Let this be a lesson to you to take a keen interest in the smallest of details. They can be the ones that change the world.

Here it is.

'_While Sakura fully intended to spend some time studying that evening, she wanted to make the most of the cracks in the grey sky, and she quickly suggested to Ino and Hinata that they meet at their regular spot and spend an hour forgetting their responsibilities. Hinata could not – with her usual stutter she explained that she had some chores to finish off – and Ino had running practise scheduled for four o'clock, and so could only stay for a little while.'_

It's always the quiet ones.

* * *

Hinata hadn't really worn appropriate footwear for haste, but once she was far enough away from the school building and was sure she was out of sight of Sakura and Ino, she bolted into a run and tore home with a speed laced with urgency. Swinging through the house into the kitchen as quietly as she could, Hinata took a deep breath and calmed herself before grasping an empty, dark brown wicker-basket from the larder's bottom level. She quickly reached for the breadbin and started pulling out loaves, baked in the early hours of the morning before _Hatchlings_, packing them tightly together. Some of the crumbs flaked into her hands and she shook them from her tingling fingers into the bottom of the basket. When the basket was as full as it could be, Hinata took a small cotton cloth and laid it over the top of the bread, to protect it if necessary.

The May weather was warm and the rain stuck like tacky glue. Hinata didn't bother with a jacket as she stepped outside, closing her front door quietly. There was no real breeze to tickle her shins. She walked as slowly as she could manage, allowing the rhythmic click of her heels on the pavement to hypnotise any panic brewing in her chest. She could not stop her mind whirring backwards, to another time of clicking heels and baskets of bread. Of felony.

Hinata had to make do with Naruto's brief updates on 'Uncle Saachi'. As hard as it was for her to let go, she understood that the fugitive from Shikamaru's attic was in the care of somebody else now – and she knew that Kakashi would do all in his power to fight for his survival. Instead, she had swivelled her focus – thanks to Naruto and his bold honesty – from the _one_ to the _many_. There were hundreds of Reds trapped in the giant cage in the forested east corner of Konoha. Hundreds of people to save. Hundreds of loaves to bake.

But first.

She arrived at Shikamaru's house in good time, and knocked on the door with some degree of confidence. His father answered. Hinata gulped down her stutter (made loud and clumsy by the fear in her knees) and smiled at the tall man.

'Good afternoon. Is S- Shikamaru there?'

She was met with a shaking head. 'He's not home from school yet. What did you want?'

Hinata grew bold. She had to. 'I baked him this bread. Could you pass it on to him?'

Shikamaru's father frowned, eyeing the wicker basket clutched in Hinata's pale, slender fingers. 'Of course, but... why have you made him bread?'

'_No time to falter, Hinata. Don't falter. Think of something...'_

'We had a cookery session in _Hatchlings _last week, and the boys from _Juvenilles_ were allowed to try it. Shikamaru liked mine the best... I thought I might bake him some more, as he liked it so much...'

Hinata blushed at the implication of her words; she couldn't help it. The taller man's eyes suddenly shone with his own understanding.

'You don't have to be so shy, young lady. Although I must say, I'm happy my son has an interest in a lady who can hold her own in the kitchen.'

Hinata smiled nervously, and held out the basket.

'_Might as well play along now...'_

'Could you give this to him, from me?' she asked timidly, the scent of baked bread fluttering into her nose. 'I feel a little embarrassed...'

Shikamaru's father took the basket, visually revelling in the scent peeping from beneath the cotton cloth atop the bread. 'That's fine. It's Hinata, isn't it?'

She nodded, long hair falling into her eyes. 'Yes, sir. Hyuuga Hinata.'

'You've turned into a nice young woman.'

She blushed, honestly this time. 'Thank you, sir.'

She turned to leave, heart pounding at her own confident lies.

'I'll make sure Shikamaru returns the basket to you, Hinata.'

'_Hinata! You're such an idiot! That's the most important part of this plan! Why didn't you mention this already?'_

'O-oh, thank you, sir...' Hinata paused, and twisted back to face the older man. 'Our maid would be very angry if I lost it.'

'And I'll make sure he replies to the little note you've left in the bottom.'

Hinata froze. The soft May raindrops felt like bullets on her skin. The blush leached from her cheeks and she felt herself blanching as she stared at Shikamaru's father.

_Lie, Hinata! Lie! How did he even see it? It's tucked away at the bottom of the basket! Lie, now!'_

'I don't k-know what you m-mean, si-'

'Now, now!' He laughed. Hinata didn't know how to react. 'There's no reason to feel ashamed. A little love note, now and then, to keep the passion alight, isn't to be frowned on! I think it's sweet.'

Hinata didn't know what to say. Her tongue stuck itself to the back of her bottom teeth as her mind raced.

'I won't read it, of course.'

His eyes were shining again. Hinata did all she could think of; she brushed the hair out of her eyes and bowed gratefully.

'T-thank you.'

'You should never be ashamed of letters forged from love, Hinata.'

With that, the door was closed, and Shikamaru's father had disappeared into his house again. Hinata stood rather awkwardly in the street, staring at the wooden door, almost shocked.

'_Letters forged from love...'_

Hinata walked home, head filled with the thought that Shikamaru's father may know more than he let on.

* * *

Two days later, when Naruto knocked on Anko's door at half past two in the afternoon with a box full of what appeared to be useless rubbish, she couldn't resist questioning him a little before he came into the house.

The box was spotty with dabs of weak rain, and Anko eyed it in suspicion. Her face must have spoken to Naruto, because he instantly offered her a brilliant smile and spoke.

'I'm here to fix those pipes, Anko, right on time!'

She could feel one of her eyebrows perking up in distaste. Naruto was as subtle as a frightened mule.

'I'm not letting you in before you tell me how much this is going to cost me.'

Her voice was droll and insentient, as though she really couldn't care less. Naruto seemed to visibly falter at her question.

'U—Um... Well that depends on the problem ... if you'll just let me in to have a look at the pipe agai-'

'You made an awful mess the last time you were here.' Anko could almost feel the confused frustration growling from Naruto's shoulders.

'I'm sorry about that – I promise I'll take better care of your home today, Ms. Hatake!'

Anko eyed him again, sharp pale eyes glaring. Eventually she stepped aside, offering Naruto the space to enter into the hall.

'Fine, but if you break anything, you're paying for it!'

The blue door slammed behind them, and Naruto offered Anko his finest expression of indignity. He hugged the box close to himself and huffed.

'What was all that about, Anko?'

'If you turn up at my door with a box of _clearly_ stolen tools in the middle of the day when you're _supposed to be in Juvenilles_, it looks suspicious.' Anko didn't bother looking at Naruto's attempt at a withering glare. She simply led him to the basement door briskly, towering on her long legs. 'And it would look even _more _suspicious if I just let you in without questioning you.'

She creaked the door open and finally met Naruto's gaze.

'Don't be too long. I'm running Sasuke a bath and I want to get it over with before Sakura gets home.'

Naruto waved his hand at her dismissively. 'Yeah, yeah, bath-time for grouchy-pants, I get it. I'm on important business here you know!'

Anko gave the slightly soggy box in his arms one last contemptuous glance. 'I can tell. Hurry up.'

With that she closed the door to the basement and reached for a broom. She probably had time for a quick sweep around the house before boiling the bath-water.

* * *

Sakura, Ino and Hinata stood chatting underneath a cherry-blossom tree. Phlebotomy had been cancelled once again (as much as Sakura hoped her teacher would make a full recovery, she was starting to enjoy these afternoons off) and the sunshine was bright, splicing through the leaves of the blossoms and smattering their faces. They talked of nothings: a particular teacher they all disliked, the upcoming sports competition, and lipsticks. The dusty light, dyed red by the shade of the petals above, banished all thoughts of war, of politics, of genetics. The warmth was too seductive to allow any darkness to creep in.

Sakura was mildly surprised when Shikamaru decided to join them. She was more surprised at the wicker basket he dangled awkwardly over his arm.

What surprised her most was the moment he passed it to Hinata.

'Thanks for the bread, Hinata. It was lovely.'

Sakura watched the two interact. Hinata seemed to freeze up momentarily, taking the basket from Shikamaru's outstretched arm hesitantly, almost like her joints needed oiling. Shikamaru looked less tentative, but there was something about the whole manner of communication between them that Sakura could only really identify as _strange_.

'_Why did Hinata bake bread for Shikamaru? I didn't realise they were close...'_

Shikamaru didn't stay a moment longer; he turned and swept away, out of the mottled light of the cherry tree and into the soft May rain. Sakura watched his back with confusion, and then looked back to Hinata. She could see that Ino was as puzzled as she was.

'Hinata...' Sakura started, unsure of what she wanted to say. Luckily, the more verbose Ino was never short of words.

'Are you _interested_ in Shikamaru?'

Hinata's big eyes widened and she clutched the basket close to herself. 'N—NO! Of course not!'

'Then _why_ did you bake him bread? Seems awfully flirtatious, if you ask me.'

Sakura laughed, face crinkling. 'Takes one to know one, Ino!'

'At least I admit to it,' Ino shot back, grinning. 'I never would have expected this from _you_, Hinata!'

'I-I wasn't flirting with h-him...' Hinata's pale cheeks were sprinkled with flush. She recoiled into herself under the interrogation. 'It's just... h-his family doesn't have m-much and I thought it w-would be nice to...'

Feeling a familiar affection for her friend, Sakura linked her arm through Hinata's and pulled her close.

'If it came from anybody else, I wouldn't believe them. But you're so sweet that I know you're telling the truth.'

Ino rolled her eyes. 'A little flirting would do you good, Hinata.'

'WHAT? Ino, you were just condemning the poor girl for baking bread for a man! Heaven forbid she _actually_ flirt with anybody!'

While Sakura and Ino dissolved into a good-natured argument, Hinata allowed herself a quick peek downwards, beneath the cotton cloth, and smiled when she saw a neatly folded note tucked into the bottom of the basket.

'_Naruto...'_

They were almost there.

* * *

'Three different sizes of chisel, tiny paintbrush, two sheets of copper, and I even managed to find you some small gems to cut down.'

Sasuke watched eagerly as Naruto pulled each object out of the box he had carried into the basement. A pleasant natural light crept in through the small window and allowed the sheets of copper to glisten a little. When he finished, Sasuke was faced with a pile of materials that he felt he could really work with.

'I'll get started on this tonight.'

Naruto tutted. 'I think the words you're looking for are 'thank' and 'you'.'

He was met with a sarcastic silence as Sasuke picked up a sheet of copper and started examining it carefully. Naruto sighed and sat down, crossing his legs on the slightly chilly floor. He watched his pale friend scrutinise the materials.

'It's always cold down here.'

'You get used to it.'

Silence. Sasuke took a few of the gems Naruto had brought him (they'd been lying around in the jeweller's he had invaded in search of small chisels) and laid them out on the floor, red eyes casting over each, taking in the colours and shapes carefully.

'Listen, Sasuke...'

No response.

'I... I might not be able to drop by for a while now...'

That got his attention. Sasuke snapped his head up, thoughts of gemstones eradicated.

'What's going on?'

Naruto took a moment to search for the right words. It was difficult, because he didn't want Sasuke to worry (a Red hiding in a basement had enough worries to last a lifetime) and yet he knew that he _would _worry no matter how succinctly he put it.

'It's nothing to fret about,' he started, only to be met with a very sceptical expression from Sasuke. 'No, really, it isn't... it's just... uh...'

He sighed.

'I'm joining a resistance group.'

Gone was the playful silence of earlier; it was replaced with a cold, nervous one, brittle and at risk of shatter. Naruto tried to ignore the itch of apprehension biting his spine.

Sasuke spoke quietly. 'What will it involve?'

'Getting food through the lines to Reds who need it most. At least, that's what I want to do.'

Sasuke was silent again. Naruto wondered what he was thinking about as he picked up the tiny paintbrush and started brushing it against his thumb. He could understand if the news wasn't going down well; Naruto had visited Sasuke fairly regularly over the past six months at _Tengoku Street_, sneaking over every Tuesday afternoon when he should have been in the classroom learning about how to deal with the problem of the Reds. Even before that he'd been at Sasuke's side, buying him sandwiches and helping him carry scraps of slowly rusting metal from one side of the village to the other. Their pasts were interwoven with bloody fists and streaming noses; with damaged pride and determined friendship. At first they'd fought each other, but in the end they'd fought the world to remain friends. They were criminals, but at least they were criminals _together_. Now Naruto was moving on, in a way; once he was in the resistance group there was no way he could continue to visit Sasuke on a regular basis. It was far too dangerous for both of them. He didn't like to give himself an ultimatum, but Naruto knew it was either Sasuke or the compound in the East, and there was no way he could ignore the tremulous shudder of bodies eking out of those caged walls any longer.

So this was a goodbye, of sorts.

'I'm sure I'll still be able to drop by, every now and then,' Naruto continued through the silence, unwavering. 'And if you need anything you know you can get a message to me through Kakashi...'

Sasuke was still staring at the paintbrush. He tickled the fine strands with the nail of his left thumb. Naruto didn't like the ambiguity in the air.

'Come on, Sasuke, say something.'

'No.'

Naruto paused, confused. Air wavered at the back of his throat, hanging in his glottis. 'N...no?'

Sasuke placed the paintbrush on the floor, lining it up straight with the other, larger ones. 'Are you deaf, now, as well as stupid? I said "no".'

Naruto almost growled, features crinkling fiercely. 'I heard you, Sasuke. But you need to understand that I didn't come down here for your permission. I _am_ joining FOX, whether you like it or not.'

'FOX? That's what they're calling it?'

Sasuke's tone was incredulous. His eyes were vivid and thin with anger. Naruto hackled.

'Yes. FOX. Because foxes are cunning and clever, and they can slip under fences without anybody seeing.'

'You idiot!' Sasuke's fists were curled into rocks. 'Foxes get chased by dogs, and men on horses. Foxes are hunted animals! The _Fang_ will hound you until you're dead. Why don't you understand what sort of game you're playing?'

'You always treat me like such a loser!' Naruto almost bellowed as Sasuke got to his feet and moved toward his hidden bed. 'Why do you think I'm so incapable? I'm not as stupid as you think I am. I got you here safely, didn't I?'

Sasuke was bent double over his mattress, searching for something. Naruto could only see his legs; his top half was draped in the sheets that hid his sleeping area from nosy, unwelcome eyes. After a few more seconds of rustling sheets, he pulled himself out of the sleeping area and threw something straight at Naruto. A newspaper. Dog-eared. It spilled onto the floor at his feet.

'I don't know what you're trying to prove to yourself.' Sasuke spoke quietly, diminutively furious. 'And it's good that you want to help. But you're no good to anybody if you're dead.'

Naruto stared down at the crumpled paper. Its innards leaked across the stone floor, pasty in the dim afternoon light. The skin of the front page was clear; illuminated, even. A picture of five dangling carcasses bled from the paper.

"_FIVE MORE PIRATES CAUGHT AND SHAMED!_

_This is the moment that five criminal Maple-Leaf Pirates were put to death before thousands of righteous Konoha citizens. Caught on the 9__th__ May delivering Pro-Red fliers to the houses of government officials, their trial has been swift and merciless. As their bodies swing in the mild wind, one cannot help but rejoice at the sight of justice being done. The crowd – made up of hundreds of righteous, law-abiding Konoha citizens – cheers at the eradication of such petty resistance. The Maple-Leaf Pirates are a small-minded resistance group intent on collaborating with and supporting any Reds remaining in the Leaf Village. However, the view of these hanging corpses is a stark reminder that the extermination of homo-vermin throughout the village of Konoha reaches not only to the race of Reds, but also to those who support their illicit presence in this land. Lord Orochimaru's message is clear and fine__**: If you choose to rebel against the hard fist of righteousness, you will be punished.**__"_

Naruto's eyes were hard as he read the words at his feet. His throat felt knotted and squeezed. Sasuke watched him, waiting for his reaction.

'As I said, Naruto. You're no good to anyone if you're dead.'

Naruto kicked the paper back at Sasuke. Hard. His boot tore an uneven slash in the picture smattered across the front page. The inside sheets were hurled into the air and sent skidding. Sasuke glowered at him as the slewing sheets came to a violent rest. Naruto didn't give him time to speak.

'You can try and scare me all you want, Sasuke!' His voice was a sponge being squeezed, and each droplet oozing from it was scarlet with anger. 'You can show me another thousand headlines and pictures of dead people – it doesn't matter! I can't stand by and do nothing while those people – those Reds – are starving to death!'

Sasuke stepped toward him, unable to bridge the ideological gap but certainly able to bridge the physical one. He scooped up the ripped front page from the floor and thrust it straight into Naruto's chest.

'Is your head so dense that you can't figure out what I'm saying? If you do this, _you will die_. And if you die, you're _useless_. Why do you have to be such a hero?'

'Because!' Naruto shouted. His breath was blistering on the skin of Sasuke's face. 'Because unlike you, I actually _want_ to help! I actually _want_ to stop what's going on out there! I don't just think about myself. It's ok for you, locked in here with no clue what's going on. But for me, out there, I see it _every single day_! I can't just hide away from it like you are, Sasuke!'

'You think I _want_ to be down here?' Sasuke's words were just as searing. He spat them at Naruto's bright, stupid blue eyes. 'Don't make out as if I'm down here out of _choice_. I'm here because if I step out onto that street someone will shoot me! I'd rather stay here like a _coward_ and live to see my brother again, at the end of all this. It's called pragmatism, Naruto. You can't just rush into everything and save the whole world. You'll just be another dead body on the heap if you do!'

Naruto allowed himself a quiet half chuckle. Sasuke paused in slight confusion at the change. The laughter was not wholesome.

'You know, up until now I've never believed any of it.' Naruto's words were deceptively calm. 'But maybe they're right. Maybe Reds _do_ only care about themselves. Maybe you are just _selfish_.'

Sasuke slugged him. Hard – as hard as he could. His fist caught Naruto across the right eye, knuckles digging into the shallow skin around the socket. Naruto's head slapped back, blond hair bouncing with the impact. There was a pause, almost weaved into the scene, while the two stood still, bodies tense and raging, whipping in the dichotomous dead air.

Then Naruto punched back. Hard – as hard as he could.

Naruto, in his roasting anger, forgot that Sasuke lived in a basement. Forgot that a person who eats one small meal a day couldn't hope to be as strong as a person who eats three hearty ones. Forgot that he probably weighed a lot loss then he used to.

So, just after Naruto's gnarled fist felt the blood of Sasuke's nose splatter across it, in the moment that Sasuke's face actually _connected _with the cold stone floor, Naruto forgot _everything_ they had just been fighting about and was instantly convinced that he was nothing more than a school-yard bully. Who else picked on those weaker than themselves?

_Who's really the coward here?_

'Sasuke!' He was kneeling at his friend's side immediately. There was a small scrap of blood on the ground; it was leaking through the white fingers of Sasuke's right hand, which clutched the centre of his face. He coughed up a few blobs of scarlet that had trickled down his nasal passage into his throat and spat them onto the floor below.

'I'm sorry!' Naruto apologised, his voice shaking, all anger dissipated in one hard punch. 'I didn't think... I mean... I...'

'Get out.'

Their eyes met. The blue were so apologetic. The red were so, so ashamed.

Naruto tried again, conscience cracking. 'Wait, please. I didn't mean any of it! I just-'

'_Get out!'_

Sasuke spat another fleck of blood onto the floor before meeting Naruto's eyes again.

'If you're so eager to go and get yourself killed, _fine_! Go and be the big hero, Naruto. Just leave me alone.'

Naruto contemplated saying more in his defence, but he knew the words would fall on ears too humiliated to hear. He stumbled to his feet, shame and anger and desperation wilting and blossoming simultaneously in his abdomen. Finally, he walked away, not looking back at the crumpled Red in the middle of the basement floor, resentment and disgrace written in his eyes.

* * *

It's not over for Naruto yet! It's a turbulent day for him. Watch. I am. I watched at the basement window as the two friends punched each other with angry words. Now I'm watching in the hall as Naruto exits the basement.

Watch.

* * *

Sakura stepped through the doorway and swallowed a sigh. She'd had fun arguing the pros and cons of mild flirtations, but Ino had a determined way of disagreeing that always wore her out a little. Still, she had the afternoon off, and was hoping to catch up on her homework before enjoying a lazy evening.

She hadn't expected to see Naruto walking out of her basement.

Sakura was too stunned for his name to even cross her lips. It just hovered in her mind, held in place by another phrase more powerful, one that numbed the edges of all her nerves and refused her limbs permission to move.

'_He was in the basement.'_

The open door swayed before her eyes, held slightly ajar by Naruto's hand. He looked equally shocked; his eyes, more angry than usual, were wide at her presence.

There was blood on his fist.

'_He's been in the basement There's blood on his fist He looks so angry'_

Before Sakura could form any sort of shape with her lips, Naruto released the basement door, let it slam shut, and strode toward her. Sakura momentarily feared for her own safety. She hadn't seen him in over a year, after all. There was every chance he could be completely _anti-rouge_ now, and if she presented herself as an obstacle on the path to the nearest _Fang_ station he might have no other choice but to forcibly remove her.

Still.

'Where do you think you're going?' she finally coughed up, fighting that numb pressure assailing her body and spreading her arms across the width of the hallway. Naruto paused, heavy steps dropping into silence.

'I have things to do, Sakura.'

'I'm sure you do!' she hissed, silently praying that her strength could match his, even for just a few moments, until help arrived. Where was her mother? Where was her father?

'If you think I'm going to just let you walk out of this door straight to the local _Fang_ station, you're wrong.'

Naruto frowned. 'Why would I be going there?'

She scoffed, pink hair like icicles around her face. 'There's blood on your knuckles. What have you done to him?'

Naruto glanced down at his right hand stiffly. The blood from Sasuke's nose was still freshly smeared across the undulations of his finger joints. He swallowed.

'I didn't mean to hit him so hard. I suppose spending six months stuck in a basement isn't exactly conducive to building strength. I apologised, but he just wanted me out...'

Sakura faltered. Thoughts caught in her throat. She willed her arms to stay strong despite her confusion.

'How do you know it's been six months?'

Naruto seemed equally confused by her reaction. He had the sort of face that couldn't keep his ideas secret for long; expressive. Almost dangerous.

'What do you mean? I can _count_, you know! You're as bad as Sasuke for saying I'm stupid.'

Her arms were dropping. She could feel it. But the electricity flashing through her was slowly turning to a cool ember.

'What have you been counting?'

Naruto's eyebrows were quirked as high as they could go. He looked baffled at Sakura's questions. His mystification was almost tangible.

'Since Sasuke came here, I've visited him twenty-two times. Pretty much every Tuesday. I don't understand why you're so-'

'You've been _visiting_ him?'

Sakura's face was pale. Her arms had dropped to her side.

'Of course I have! I promised Itachi that I'd look after him when all the windows got broken. It's the promise of a lifetime. Hasn't Sasuke ever mentioned me to you?'

Sakura's knees gave way beneath her. She dropped abruptly to the ground into an awkward sitting position, hands grazing the floor. Naruto's face flooded with concern and for the second time that day he dropped, grabbing her shoulders to support her.

'Sakura! What's wrong?'

'All this time...' she muttered, almost dazed. 'All this time... it was the three of us. I didn't even know you and Sasuke knew each other.'

'Sakura, that day, by the river...' Naruto spoke with earnest, and he sat himself down on the floor to meet her gaze levelly. 'I was late because Sasuke and I got caught up in some _anti-Rouge_ violence. I couldn't tell you... you seemed so torn between loving and hating Reds that I didn't know if I could risk you knowing...'

He was stopped by a pair of arms draping themselves around his neck. They pulled him close, and he was bound in the grateful scent of blossoms.

'Thank you for bringing him here,' she whispered. There was no real sound to her words but they burst with thankfulness. 'Thank you for looking after him.'

He settled into the folds of her embrace, allowing him a few short moments before critical necessity drew him away. The hundreds of days that had fallen between them seemed to dissipate, sinking like a leaf into obscure water. Sakura's skin was soft and alluring, and Naruto could easily remember a time when he would have wept at the touch of her hands upon his neck. A time when he bargained facts for kisses. A time when there were no secrets hiding in their basements.

But Naruto had a new goal now; a life in the rays of the sun was to be replaced by a life in the shadows of the moon. There would be no more casual visits in the daytime, no more easy exchanges. Any dreams he had fostered in the dappled light of the Konoha sunshine were now plunged into darkness; digging tunnels in the dead of night, pushing parcels under fences before the searchlight could illuminate any guilty features.

Sakura was a woman of daylight; of summer blossoms and blue skies. She always had been. And while Naruto could easily admit that he had always had feelings for Sakura, there was no way he could drag her into the pits and mud-streets of the life he was about to embark upon. It was not her place. A cherry-blossom would die in the darkness.

He had his alternative. She was better suited for this. Her entire silhouette was practically a portrait of a moonlit night. Naruto knew that Hinata, with her eyes like stars and heart of sheer giving, would blossom in the darkness. And his future would bloom around her.

Besides.

'_Thank you for bringing him here. Thank you for looking after him.'_

Naruto had heard everything Sakura hadn't said in those few words. The gaps between each utterance were filled with something he could recognise. He didn't even know if she'd said it to herself yet. Some words were all the more strong when they were invisible, inaudible.

Naruto pulled himself out of the arms of the girl he used to love.

'I really have got things to do, Sakura. I can't stay here.'

Her eyes shone. 'Can we catch up soon? We have a lot to talk about.'

She looked surprised when he shook his head. 'I won't be here for a while. It'll be too dangerous for all of you.'

He didn't need to explain himself. He could see in her expression that Sakura understood him clearly. The invisible words told her all she needed to know.

Sitting opposite each other in the hall, the two friends said a silent, impermanent goodbye. They were glad they had met one more time. They were unsure but determinedly sure that they would meet once more.

Sakura touched a hand to his. 'Be careful, Naruto.'

Trademark grin. Confident, sparkling blue eyes. 'Time to go and change the world, eh?'

Soft, tender green. 'You already have.'

* * *

Hinata waits at the great wooden doors of _The Church of All Saints_ in Central Konoha. Her hands are deep in her cardigan pocket, and deep in her hands is a scrunched note, still bearing the remnants of grateful breadcrumbs.

Deep on the note is an address, and some deadly details. The deadly details, scrawled in Shikamaru's quick handwriting, are as follows:

_The Church of All Saints, Tuesdays, 7-8pm, booth furthest to the right._

It is ironic, she thinks, that those who want to help are the ones seeking the booth of confession.

The night is hot; tacky. The heaviness of her long hair, swelling like a wave on her shoulders, makes her neck perspire. The faint, ghostly fingers of rain occasionally touch her face.

Naruto appears in the distance. He seems overdressed in a long coat. His face is set and serious in a manner almost unfamiliar to her. He arrives at her side quickly, and they enter the church together, two sinners desperately searching for piety.

The inside is as Hinata remembers it; grandiose and laced with pomp. The uniform rows of pews, designed for discomfort, are empty of life. Their movements are watched only by the saints and heroes of the past, trapped in the haunted windows, glowing pastel in the moonlight.

Naruto whispers that she should take a pew and mimic prayer while he enters the booth on the right. It could be a trap, he says. It might not be safe. She does as he says; her knees bury themselves in the rigid carpet.

Hinata has no need to mimic. She prays. Desperately. Not for herself. She prays for those cursed with unfashionable red eyes who sleep in the mud tonight. She prays for babies being ripped from their mothers and wives being ripped from their husbands. She prays for soldiers in the grass with bleeding eyes. She prays for souls reaching bony fingers up to heaven, even though it's too far away to touch.

Hinata prays until she is crying.

Naruto is speaking to somebody in the booth. She can hear their muffled words. She wipes her nose and tries to listen.

'Me and the girl, yes.'

'How can we trust your commitment?'

'There's a certain book-shop owner in this town who will verify our involvement with the _pro-Rouge_ activities so far.'

Silence. Hinata is certain the saints in the windows are listening to her hammering heartbeat.

Naruto exits the booth. He looks satisfied. Hinata stands, wondering how long she has been wrapped in prayer. He walks past her pew and she follows, dutifully. Together they exit the church, the huge heavy doors slamming ceremoniously behind them.

In the hot air of the night, Naruto turns to her with a determined smile.

'We're in, Hinata. Our first meeting is on Thursday.'

His voice is a whispered secret but it shouts in Hinata's chest.

'_We're in...'_

They are now a part of FOX.

They are going to, somehow, save the world.

* * *

Again, massive thank you to Janine. She's the best editor in the whole world. Next chapter is a quarter written... sorry for the slow update. I was working the worst job ever and it left me no time. Plus I struggled with the content of this one. Hope you can't tell ^_^


	14. Compassion

**RED**

**Chapter 13: Compassion**

**

* * *

**

July of year 040 is, for Kakashi at least, a time for bringing. When it rolls in lazily in the dust of a hot June, there are several knocks on his door.

Often metaphorically speaking, of course.

June was the month in which he first met Captain Obito of the Fourth Regiment during the Great War. So each July, Kakashi spools backwards over sweaty training camps and misfired bullets and a round, smoky sun pushing hard through the grey patches of marsh water all around them. He watches an awkward friendship growing in the muddy weeds of the ground. Inevitably July leads to February, and February leads to botched missions and scrambling fields and Obito, dead in the ground. But it's not like Kakashi isn't thinking about that all the time anyway.

He and Anko were married in a July – she insisted on a summer wedding and who was he to say no to a beautiful woman? – and so his memories of the war are dotted with small, bright flowers and soft white lace. He sees it like a canvas in his mind; murky, trenchy war and smouldering scarlet, with a curtain of seductive virgin cloth draped over the corners and sweet purple flowers hinting through the grass.

These memories (oddly entwined as they are) knock on his door every July. Without fail. Old friends returning from journeys that never really took them very far away in the first place. Over the years Kakashi has gotten more accustomed to opening the door whenever it is knocked upon. The faces appearing in the frame are familiar; they are not received without happiness.

July also brings Sakura's birthday. Another year, another number. Seventeen now – a little taller than average, for her age, and quite unusual looking. He thinks she's beautiful (he's her Father – she's the most beautiful girl in the world) and he's sure every man who looks at her thinks the same way. The July of Sakura's seventeenth brings the worry to Kakashi that Sakura is growing up fast, and the day may soon come when he has to give her away.

He doesn't know what to get her. Last year she accepted the medical textbook he and Anko had given her gracefully but he could tell she was a little disappointed privately. Birthdays are times for presents of the impractical, fleeting kind – no room for wisdom. Still, he can discuss that with Anko; she has a head for this sort of thing.

Birthdays, weddings, and funerals. They are all knocking on his door in July. But in the year 040 another element is added. Another memory for Kakashi to stack up in his head, to rap on the door come the long summer months.

Kakashi can see into the future – but this time it's hazy, like a stranger approaching on a foggy horizon.

He can't tell if it's laughing or weeping.

* * *

For Naruto, July brought long, well-lit days and short, hot nights.

Less time to act.

For a month he'd been helping construct a deep underground shaft leading into the most westerly quarter of the Compound in the East, 001. He led a small team of others through the operation (Hinata included); each night they gathered, pickaxes or shovels disguised in their heavy coats or satchels, at an abandoned farmhouse about a quarter of a mile away from the edge of the Compound. The floor of the barn offered a trapdoor (easily hidden with a thick rug) which led into a basement, and one wall of the basement had been torn down to allow them to dig a wide shaft into the soil. The ceiling and walls of the shaft were supported with long, thick branches and logs – Konoha was abundant in forestry – and the team soon created a system for getting rid of excess soil as they tunnelled. Just under four weeks later the tunnel had been constructed and was considered safe enough to move freely along. As the tunnel entered the wet soil of the Compound they had to snap a hole in the surrounding fence, as it reached deep underground. Still, wire cutters and rubber dressing made easy work of it, and a small exit was created in a quiet corner, next to the most westerly bunker.

Naruto found he didn't have time to be appalled at the conditions he came across in that one small section of the camp. He knew what he'd expected, and he knew this was far, far worse. But he had a job to do, and bread to deliver, and he had to do it without getting caught. Each night he popped his head out of the exit – concealed with a cloth covered with glued on rocks and grass – and hissed at the nearest capable Red. It could often take up to an hour to attract somebody's attention in a subtle way.

Generally, Naruto was a person brimming with energy, but the late-night bread-drops were starting to take a toll on him. He'd enter the tunnel at eleven o'clock, and leave it at around one in the morning. His team were magnificent – all passionate and daring and bold, just how he liked them – but he could see them beginning to flag after the first month crept by. Many of them were young and still attended _Juveniles_ or _Hatchlings_, just like he and Hinata did. Bed at two in the morning, followed by an early rise and a hard day of learning, resulted in dark rings around the eyes and sluggish reactions. And Naruto knew that soon the teachers would begin to notice. They needed a rotating team to maintain and supervise the bread-drops. It was too much for one group to uphold.

Hinata surpassed his expectations. She was the one who refused to be tired. The one who refused to let herself get sloppy despite the lateness of the hour or the stickiness of the close, dense passageway. The team was the tunnel, and Hinata was the support, holding each of them up with arms that looked weak but were strong and unwavering. It was as though she had grown in the darkness, like a root, embedded in the soil, absorbing all the good in the world around her and trying desperately to pass it on.

Each night, when Naruto felt his strength seeping as he passed loaf upon loaf up to filthy, gnarled fingers, he felt Hinata touch his hands and he came to life. Her eyes, reflecting the white of the moon, pushed the need for sleep back a few inches every time he met them.

Her determination was contagious.

* * *

I think I've let you relax a little too much of late. You're resting on your laurels, as they say. Your guard is down. You don't have a Hinata, reaching up and passing you bread with a steadfast smile. Honestly, you don't have the time for that.

All you have time to do is hope for the best.

Let's unrelax you a little.

* * *

Konoha's streets were littered with Reds the day Haruno Sakura turned seventeen. She hardly had the time to notice. She was dealing with a crisis.

For the past month she'd been focusing rigidly on her exams. She considered herself mildly unlucky to be born in July; it was the month in which testing religiously barged into her life and stole away her free time. She hardly had the seconds to celebrate. Each night was spent in one of two places: on the hard seat of her bedroom desk, or the drab dimness of the basement, still sloshing paint onto the walls and trying to ignore the chemical scent.

Sasuke still helped her, when he could. He sat on the edge of his bed, watching her write and recite, and he made her repeat the words and their meanings to him over and over. Sakura knew he couldn't correct her if she misconnected a word and a definition. That wasn't the point. He was helping her to condition the words into her soul, pressing them so hard they left a permanent imprint.

Naruto's fist had left a seemingly permanent imprint upon Sasuke himself. His nose, bruised and seeping when she had found him in the basement two months ago, had healed straight and undamaged. One of his eyes had worn a bluish coloured blossom under the stretched skin for a few days, and an old wound above his right eyebrow had opened up at the request of the cold basement floor, but that too locked itself away in scar tissue after a week or so.

The imprint was not physical.

He was quiet. Quiet_er_. Sakura knew him to be a subdued, reflective sort of person who only really spoke when the words meant something. The occasional nervous outbreak was far from his normal character, and the months he had spent in the basement had taught her that his silence was not necessarily a bad thing. Nevertheless, since Naruto's fist (Sakura doubted that the fist was the chief culprit in this situation) had dug into the cartilage and capillaries in his face, Sasuke's words lacked their usual gravitas. He helped her but he did not challenge her in the way he normally would. The difference was slight, and Sakura couldn't really identify it verbally, but she would venture to guess that Sasuke was feeling _hurt_ by it all, and his mood made for an unusual, almost tense atmosphere on some nights.

Even though it was summer now, and the rain that fell was hot, Sasuke continued to sleep on the couch in the living room for extra warmth. Each night the curtains were locked over each other securely, slighting the street outside and banishing it to the world of ignorance. To some the fire may seem unnecessary – certainly Sakura's Father was particularly mindful that the flames be put out before dawn – but Sakura understood that it wasn't just the heat that Sasuke needed. The fire was built with colours, artlessly; she swore that staring into the hearth she could see every colour in the world. She knew that they were a balm to Sasuke's eyes, ensnared in the grey universe of the basement for the majority of his life.

He was working on something. She didn't know what it was. Every now and then she'd catch a glimpse of a chisel (where had he gotten _that_ from?) or a tiny, tinted paintbrush. The project was kept hidden safely from her interested eyes, but the occasional drop of evidence gave him away.

She was sure she would find out, sooner or later.

Five days before her birthday (not that Sakura was counting), Sasuke made his way up from the basement, as always, once the curtains were drawn. In the dim, flickering candlelight humming from various corners of the room, she could see the faint gleam of sweat across his forehead. She imagined he'd been exercising again. He stood near the hearth and Anko passed him a small bowl of carrot soup, complete with a hunk of bread. Sasuke took the meal silently. Anko knew his gratitude was noiseless.

After serving her husband and daughter their bowls, Anko took a seat on the couch next to Kakashi and glared across the room at Sakura, who was seated in a small armchair.

'I'm getting really sick of this, Pig.'

Sakura blinked, mouthful of soup hovering before her mouth on a flickering spoon. 'What?'

Kakashi didn't bother to watch his wife as she spoke. The soup was too appealing, and he knew she wasn't really angry.

'I've asked you _fifty_ times what you want for your birthday. At least! Did I raise you to be stupid? Are you incapable of expressing yourself?'

Sakura swallowed down a laugh. She glanced up at Sasuke, expecting him to be watching the interchange with the usual suppressed sort of merriment in his features, but he was staring into the fire, food untouched, clasped in his hands.

'Oh, don't look at him for answers!' Anko spat with a mouthful of soup. 'You're going to be seventeen! There must be _something_ you really want! You're lucky to get _any_ presents with this sort of attitude.'

Sakura watched the surface of her soup. It was thin; mostly made up of water. She remembered on her sixteenth birthday watching her own reflection in the banks of the Konoha River with Naruto at her side. She remembered how she found solace in the way the world turned upside-down and became a magical labyrinth of uncertainty. The excitement she longed for as she gazed into the waters had crashed into her life as though it had burst through a shattering window. Now, as she gazed into the murky soup, she could hardly see the shape of her own face. The things she desired now were no longer the things her parents could buy. Safety. Security. Tolerance.

She wondered, briefly, at how much she had changed.

'Kakashi...'

The voice came from the fireplace. It was hazy, like an exhausted echo in a huge hallway. The Hatake family looked up from their bowls just in time to see Sasuke crumple to the floor, hitting his head on the edge of the fireplace as he went.

Sakura couldn't move. She heard a clattering soup bowl as Anko bolted first, hands cradling Sasuke's head as she moved it away from the flames.

'Sakura, get blankets from upstairs. He's freezing. Kakashi, help me lift him onto the couch.' A pause, while the other stunned inhabitants of the room took in the orders. '_Now_!'

Sakura darted upstairs, a sick feeling in her throat. Kakashi grabbed Sasuke by the shins, helping his wife move the lifeless-looking man onto the couch. By the time Sakura returned, arms piled high with thick blankets, Anko had prepared a small bowl of water and a rag and was ringing the cloth out in preparation to place it upon Sasuke's head. He lay very still on the couch, and Sakura watched tentatively, waiting for his chest to rise and fall.

Weakly.

Anko placed the damp, cold cloth across Sasuke's burning forehead while Kakashi lay blankets over him, tucking them in so their inhabitant was almost cocooned within.

'How did this happen? He hasn't said a word...'

Sakura sank down to her knees, the feverish situation beginning to make itself really known in her stomach. She'd noticed Sasuke's quietness. She'd noticed his pale, sallow skin. She'd noticed how no matter how much he exercised he seemed to disappear slowly rather than building up any muscle.

This had been coming for a long time.

'What can I do, Mother?' Sakura's voice trembled. She fought tears. As knowledgeable a nurse as she was – as easily as she could rattle off the different parts of the brain or the various valves of the heart – there was no way she felt qualified to deal with this situation. She was unqualified. She was terrified. Staring at Sasuke's dead face she wondered what the use of all her schooling and training was if she couldn't help him.

'Nothing, Pig.' Anko kept her eyes on the bundle on the couch. 'We can do nothing until this fever breaks.'

Sakura, biting tears back proudly, felt her Father's calloused hands upon her shoulders. She grasped at them blearily and he squeezed. She could feel a misplaced guilt seeping through his fingers.

'Mother?' Sakura knew she sounded like a lost child. Her voice was heavy with tremors. She wasn't really sure why she was asking. 'Is... is he going to die?'

She heard her Father swallow, loud and nervous in his throat. There was a tense silence as Anko flipped the rag on Sasuke's forehead and pressed it against the flaming, pale skin.

'Don't be stupid, you two. I didn't let a Red into my house just to have him die on me.'

Sakura couldn't hold the tears any more. They grasped at her face as she stared at the man from the basement, throat clogged up with all the things she wanted to say but hadn't taken the time to.

Kakashi sat down beside her. Anko remained at the couch, fingers already showing signs of pruning from the cool water.

The night would be long.

* * *

Kakashi stares at the distant figure surrounded by mist. His form is suffocated by the haze of time not-yet-passed. Squinting, Kakashi can make out (only with his Red eye) a jet black crown of hair on the cloudy silhouette. As he watches, the smog choking the air begins to drag the figure away, clawing and gnawing at various limbs and parts of the body.

Not being able to help is killing him. Once his feet itched to relieve those suffering; now they ache and bleed from standing in one spot. He doesn't care about the risk. The act of standing, still and tense in apprehension of the law, or the _Fang_, or Time, has brought Kakashi to the brink of idleness. He is a dog, who has kept his jaws firmly closed despite the bark begging to be released.

The eyes in the distance – scarlet, of course – meet his in plea. In coughing, bitter desperation. The inky hair is swirling away into statistical obscurity – another Red lost to the mists. Another casualty of that warlord, Time.

Kakashi clenches his fists. They feel old and crooked. Too long they have been idle.

Kakashi swears he will help the man in the mist. He will stop the future before the future can get them.

* * *

Two days later and a shadow leans over the bed Sasuke has been moved into. The room is small and the intrusive glare of the moon casts stretched profiles across the pale linen bed sheets.

A vulture is watching Sasuke as he sleeps.

He is microcosmic. Thousands of soldiers fight bitterly against the warring _Fang_ soldiers in the newly invaded territories of Wind country. Thousands of cells, weak from constant onslaught, stand their ground as an unknown ailment slings fire and arrows through Sasuke's blood. The _Fang_ take prisoners in Sand, binding them in tight, cutting ropes and throwing them in hastily constructed concentration camps. Illness wastes no time in making basic bodily functions its prisoners; easy breathing, temperature control and consciousness are all vital players in this war who lose their battles devastatingly quickly.

The heart of the Wind people is strong. They defend fiercely, inferior weapons and low numbers unable to faze them. They refuse to be intimidated in the face of defeat; freedom is worth too much to them.

As the Time vulture hops through the glass window of the room as though it were blessed oxygen, he wonders at the tenacity of Sasuke's heart. He wonders how much his life is worth to him.

He spreads his wings and hovers, like a bat. His eyes glow in the night, and his shadow beats across Sasuke's battling ribcage. Time, as ever, is professional in this regard; he takes careful note of the dark, sickly circles ringing Sasuke's heavily closed eyes, and makes sure to listen to the dragging of his breath as he sucks in life through trembling, dying lungs.

His old friend Hatake Kakashi sits at the foot of the bed in an uncomfortable looking chair. He is asleep. His face looks horrendously weary. Lying on the floor nearby are newspapers, documenting the past days. Just in case.

Time takes their devotion to heart – he really does – but an analysis of the symptoms allows him to make the decision that Uchiha Sasuke's time on this planet is finished.

* * *

Sakura lay awake in her bed for the third night in a row. Through the pitch darkness (she drew her curtains firmly for fear the moon might illuminate how truly terrified she was) she stared at the ceiling. Upon it was a picture of Sasuke, pale skin iridescent and gleaming with feverish sweat as his body writhed in the grip of infection. The image refused to leave the ceiling except for when Sakura closed her eyes, in which case the image implanted itself cleanly upon the insides of her eyelids and haunted her bed.

When Sasuke had first arrived at _Tengoku _Street, and had moved into the little house with the blue door, Sakura had watched him sleep, fascinated. He muttered things; tiny irrelevancies, but telling nonetheless. She learned much about him in those hours when he unconsciously begged his nightmares to give his brother back, or let him return to his mother. She studied the ways in which his face moved. It was all hollow, of course – Sasuke's face was nothing without his eyes – but Sakura had taken comfort in the fact that even in sleep he hadn't left her in silence. As quiet as he was, Sasuke had made a real noisy impact upon her life the moment he entered it.

The silence of his sickness ran true fright through her body. When she sat with him, there were times that she would listen for his breath and her heart would go dizzy in her chest when there was no sound. Only by leaning close and feeling the faint effort of air on her cheek could she ascertain that there was still life within him. He was horribly still – she would give anything for him to toss and turn like the image that haunted her dreams. At least his muscles would be fighting! At least she would be able to _see_ the life in him!

Her muscles twitched as she lay in her bed. She wondered if Sasuke could hear. She wondered if he was awake inside his head, banging at the gates of his own body and demanding he be allowed to waken.

Sakura slipped out of bed with no care for the late hour. She would rather watch the real Sasuke, as still and corpse-like as he was, than the ghoul of hope on the ceiling.

* * *

Time hovers close. He has a gentle way of wrenching the soul from the body – talons slip into the heart, gliding through the buttery ribcage, and simply grasp it. Wings beat and pull and slowly the soul is lifted from the body, unaware that it has made an exit from existence. As ominous as Time can be, there is a peacefulness in the acceptance of his nature that brings a quiet sort of calm to those who succumb to him.

Time pushes his talons through Sasuke's chest. It is rickety and weak. His clawed nails pass through the ribs and meet the heart, pulsing insipidly. The soul is there, lying beneath, prime for the picking.

Time reaches. His extended claws glimmer in the moonlight.

He is met by a pair of bloody eyes.

They stare from beneath a shock of black hair like fire in a forest, ablaze with what Time initially believes to be indignity. Cold hands that Time had given up on wrap around the hovering claws with unforeseen strength, and push, push away hard. Time cannot express his surprise that Sasuke, the near-dead man in the soft linen, is fighting back.

The pale fingers unwrap themselves from his claws and Time instantly drops in again, more determined now. The red eyes meet him. The cold hands. The brutal determination.

Time moves away quickly. His ebony wings shine silver in the moon. He scowls down at the man glaring back at him. It's an unusual feeling. Time isn't used to being watched.

The eyes talk without the mouth moving. Sasuke isn't giving up. He doesn't care about the limitations of the body. He doesn't care if his heart is weak; physical frailties are made up for by the need to survive. He has things he cares about and is desperately unwilling to let those things slip through his exhausted fingers.

Time flits back to the windowsill and takes one quick look at the room. Sasuke is still asleep in the bed. His eyes are closed. They have never been open.

Hatake Kakashi rests jadedly in an awkward position. There are tired, faint footsteps heading toward the bedroom.

Just as the bedroom door opens, Uchiha Sasuke snaps open his eyes for real.

Time to leave.

* * *

As Sakura approached the bedroom door, she prepared herself for the sickly smell the room had acquired over the past few days. Anko had religiously kept Sasuke clean and changed any sheets that needed changing, but the scent of illness was hard to wash away. It smelled like a pungent wound, rotting and refusing to heal. It smelled like the sweat of a dog-tired body trying to rid itself of an unremitting poison.

She expected the smell, and the sight, and even the silence.

Sakura did not expect to hear a faint, thick cough echoing beneath the door.

She burst through, all care for quietness thrown down the stairs. Her Father was starting awake in his chair, and she saw his frenzied eye move quickly as he gathered his bearings.

The thing that she really cared about was the coughing. Sasuke was coughing. There was something dense and sticky in his throat. Sakura allowed relief to wash over her in waves as she darted to the bed quicker than her Father and propped Sasuke up into a slouched sitting position.

'Alright, Sasuke,' she murmured instinctively as her Father watched with surprised pride. 'Get that up. Come on. Cough it up all up now.'

As she held him upright the strength in his chest seemed to grow, and Sasuke, with a semi-conscious grimace gripping his features, coughed hard, dislodging days-old infection from his windpipe. Sakura rubbed his back with her left hand and reached for a cloth with her right, wiping the phlegm from Sasuke's chin as he fought it out. Kakashi watched in a sort of helpless awe as his daughter relieved Sasuke's distress with kind, soft words and temperate hands.

Sasuke seemed to exhaust himself very quickly, and Sakura lay him down once she was satisfied that he'd dislodged a decent amount of infection from his trachea. His head lolled weakly into the pillows and she adjusted his shoulders into what looked like a comfortable position. After a moment tucking him in, Sakura glanced at his pale face to find his eyes open a crack. The red in them seemed so translucent and dim, but Sakura took heart that they were open, and mildly aware.

'Th... thirs...'

Sakura couldn't believe he was speaking. His voice was a dry rasp, like scorched straw under a desert sky, and his lips were so desiccated that she was genuinely shocked he was able to move them. But his voice, as thin and vanishing as it was, broke through the clouds of her nightmare as sun parting the clouds. Its rays warmed her chest.

'I'll get you a drink.'

She turned to find her Father behind her, holding out a small cup of cold water and watching the man in the bed intently.

'Here.'

Sakura took the cup from her Father, and the cold sensation of the cheap china on her hands seemed to trigger tears. They suddenly burst from her eyes, and while her face was calm and sober as she lifted Sasuke's head so his lips could meet the edge of the cup, leaking tears tumbled down her face, dripping onto the linen.

'Little sips, Sasuke.'

She watched Sasuke's throat rise and fall as he drank in tiny gulps of water. Sakura held the cup, and Sasuke's head, steadily while he quenched his thirst. When he'd finished she passed the cup back to her Father, who never took his eyes off them, and then pressed the back of her slender hand to Sasuke's forehead.

There was still a heat to it, but Sakura instantly knew that the fever had passed its worst point. The tears on her skin felt good. They stung of reprieve and almost-given-up hope. She pushed her hand through his clammy hair, brushing it back from his head. His eyes followed her face.

'It's nice to see those eyes open.'

The edge of his lips seemed to curl into a small smile. Sakura wondered if it was visible to her Father. She leaned over Sasuke, drawing her face close to his, taking joy in the way his gaze followed her. He was lucid.

'You have had me very scared.' She spoke in tiny utterances, feeling the breath pass over her lips with something close to gratitude. The tears fell from her face onto his. 'You're not the same when you're just asleep all the time.'

A definite smile. His face shifted slightly. Sakura had watched those cheeks and that chin and those eyes for hours when Sasuke had first arrived and first slept; she knew their movements well. She smiled back, eyes sparkling with more than tears.

Kakashi made a point not to watch as his daughter pressed her forehead against the one of the criminal in the bed. He was watching something unfold that he had long suspected but never seen proven. It was quite beautiful, but he was acutely aware that these moments were not for his own eyes to witness. His gaze found the floor and he pulled volumes of memories from the bookshelves in his mind to cloud his consciousness, just for a while.

Sakura pressed her nose against Sasuke's lightly. She was well aware that he was not even close to being recovered; the awareness in his glance however made her confident in his return to health. If she had ever doubted the mettle of his constitution she would never have done what she did next.

She pushed her lips to his. Sakura cared not for the risk of infection or contamination. For as she had lain awake the past nights, staring up at the image burning in her eyelids, the thought that she'd never touched his lips with her own dug into her like wire. Dread that Sasuke might slip away without knowing the effects he had on her straddled her uncompromisingly. The guilt she imagined she'd feel crushed her shoulders like a punishment.

For Sakura, this was a turning point. She forced her body and Sasuke's to collide, insistently, because she never knew if the chance to do so again would be torn from her fingers. She suddenly felt a sense of urgency that she'd never been familiar with before. She touched the precious things in her life, the ones she always wanted to be with, because they could disappear, cruelly, when Time made its entrance (timely or not).

She felt a need for Sasuke's lips on hers. She felt a need for more, but knew she must temper her urgency with patience. And although his lips could barely respond, his eyes lit as though a candle burned behind them. Tears rolled from her skin to his and mixed with the slight sheen of moisture across his face.

'Sasuke,' she said, lips still touching his. She knew he could feel her words. 'Don't ever leave me like this again.'

Sakura didn't have time for more. Exhaustion finally claimed Sasuke and his eyes slipped into sleep. Refusing to move her forehead from his, Sakura finally let all the fear and dread and guilt of the past days collapse onto her and she shuddered with silent, thankful sobs.

Hands were on her shoulders again. They did not pull her away. Sakura briefly reflected upon how much she loved her Father.

Then she savoured the idea that the touch of her lips might be lingering on Sasuke's, even in his sleep, and that the image emblazoned upon his dark inner eyelids might be of her.

Despite her soundless weeping, Sakura smiled.

* * *

A lifeless sort of grey coloured the next days for Sasuke. He awoke to a burning in his throat and, prising his eyes open to the ancient light, was met with Anko sitting at his bedside. She seemed pleased that he had awakened.

'Good morning, Sasuke.'

She was already prepared, with water and a small bowl of very thin pea soup. The idea of food was nauseating to Sasuke. He swallowed gingerly, throat flaring at the action. Anko scowled at him.

'This is what you get for being so stubborn, you silly child. How long had you been feeling ill for before you decided to nearly up and leave?'

Sasuke was surprised. He wondered briefly how long he had been asleep. He felt heavy, as though a granite block had pushed down over his slumber. There had been no dreams or even nightmares; just a weighty blackness.

'Well?'

Anko's prompts were not to be ignored. Sasuke doubted that his present infirmity would soften the woman's temper.

'A few weeks.' His voice was like skin on gravel. It almost hurt to listen to.

'In future, if you feel poorly,' Anko demanded while picking up the bowl of soup and stirring it, 'you are to tell me _right away_. I don't appreciate the shock you gave me and the rest of this family. It's no burden to take care of your health. It would be a huge burden to have to dispose of your body.'

Sasuke hoped there was more to Anko's telling off than met the ear. He remained mute and allowed the surprisingly gentle-handed woman to sit him up. The weakness in his muscles appalled him but he felt too dizzy to let his pride be wounded.

'You need to understand,' Anko continued gruffly, lifting a small spoonful of hot soup to Sasuke's mouth and forcing it in before he could really protest, 'that we've gotten used to having you here, each of us for our own reasons. You leaving like that wouldn't have been very fair.'

The soup rolled down his throat and he felt it settle in his stomach. Sasuke, who never thought he'd allow himself to be spoon-fed anything in his life, paid no heed to memorial pangs of pride or puffed up self-respect as the spoon clicked softly against his teeth. For once, he was happy to let somebody else care for him, even if just for a little while.

His mind wandered to a lingering softness on his lips. Suddenly, the soup wasn't as repellent, and he was able to drink it down with relative ease.

The softness, salty with night-shed tears, remained.

* * *

While Anko tends the slowly recovering man in the bed upstairs, and Sakura goes back to _Hatchlings_ to keep up appearances, Kakashi watches the world pass by through the front window of his small house. The view from his window is ever changing, and he does not like it. It is a painting being eaten by fire.

He does not know which is worse: the row of shuffling, skeletal Reds marched toward camp 001 every day, or the eyes of Leaf civilians who line the edges of the streets, backed against their houses, scared to get too close, staring at the prisoners who stumble through their lives. He wonders if they feel the same guilt he does at his thick jacket, or neat trousers, as they watch the ragged scraps of cloth clinging to the bodies of those who walk by, elbows protruding from their arms. He imagines they don't. He imagines they feel proud of the thick coats on their backs, and deserving, and lucky.

Soon he hates the jacket laden across his shoulders. Soon he wishes to give it away. It makes him feel too remorseful, because he is not doing enough.

Because there can never be enough. These figures are all falling into the mist. These figures are disappearing into the nameless grave of history.

His feet begin to itch again. The way they did when he was a child and knew there was something he was neglecting.

Staring into the hollow skulls of the Reds flowing past him, Kakashi doesn't know how long he can resist the urge to scratch.

* * *

Two days after Sasuke woke up, he declared himself fit enough to move back down to the basement. Anko would not allow it at first but Sasuke, regaining a little of his stubbornness, would not allow her to forbid him. He knew it was a great risk for him to be upstairs during the sunlight hours and refused to compromise the safety of their little home even more unnecessarily than he already did by inhabiting the basement. Anko conceded rather reluctantly. There was a subtle eagerness in his voice that she could not argue with.

This day was, of course, Sakura's birthday. She'd awoken a happy woman, still able to relish in the fresh relief of Sasuke's return to health, and 'seventeen' seemed to be starting on a beautifully high note.

She'd visited Sasuke in the morning, in his last stay in her parents' bedroom, and he'd quite easily wished her a happy birthday. He'd turned seventeen in the second month of his stay at _Tengoku_ street and knew the passing of the year was not hard nor monumental. There was a sweet excitement in her face as she thanked him, and she was shortly joined by her parents, who each bore small gifts for her.

One was a pale pink lipstick. Almost nude, with a hint of flush.

The other was a leather-bound diary. Its edges were soft and new, and the moment she tore the thin brown wrap from it the room was filled with its scent. It was crisp, like the smell of cut grass or cold water. Sakura adored it. Her thanks echoed in the room.

She left for _Hatchlings_ with a beaming smile, feeling taller and prettier with a dash of pink on her lips. An hour later Sasuke was back in the basement, wrapped (at Anko's insistence) in a snug blanket and feeling better than he had in weeks.

Kakashi returned to watching from the window. Being owner of his own shop allowed him a certain freedom when it came to opening up, and he had chosen over the past few days to stay at home and feign illness should any questions arise. He stood at his perch, watching with one eye as the afternoon drew on and the river of souls flowed past his blue door. His fingers were tickling.

Anko chose not to say anything. She knew of her husband's some-time melancholy and experience had taught her the best way of dealing with it. She fed him, and loved him, and held him at night, and he got better, given a few days. She buried herself in washing the bed sheets upstairs and allowed Kakashi to grieve silently for bodies without coffins. She even baked a little bread to treat her daughter.

When Sakura returned home late in the afternoon (walking bravely alongside the river that continued to flow into dusk) she carried a packet of chocolate that Ino and Hinata had bought her. She was admittedly a sugar lover and had certainly found the past few years of strict rationing to be difficult, but now she wanted more than ever to share the delicious, unusual taste of chocolate with her family.

'_Sasuke first,'_ she decided as she stepped through the door. _'He's probably never tasted chocolate in his life.'_

She forgot to slip off her shoes in her haste, and cluttered up the stairs with her satchel dangling haphazardly from her shoulder. She was greeted by a surly Anko on the landing.

'Get those shoes off _now_, Pig. I don't care if it's your birthday.'

'I have chocolate!' replied Sakura, too excited to neither contain herself nor care for the scolding. 'I want to give some to-'

'He's downstairs.' Mother answered curtly, 'He asked not to be disturbed.'

Sakura shook her head. 'I don't mean Father. Although he can have some if he likes! I mean-'

'I know who you mean.' Anko snapped. 'As I said: he's downstairs, and doesn't want to be disturbed.'

Frown tugging at her pink lips, Sakura headed back downstairs, more quietly now. She slipped her shoes off under the biting eye of her Mother and dropped her satchel by the front door. Chocolate still clutched in her left hand, she approached the door to the basement and knocked, as always.

The reply was instant. 'Not right now, Sakura.'

She found it hard to understand why she felt so rejected, but Sakura scowled at the door. She glanced down at the chocolate, injured that her good deed was going unnoticed. She wanted to share! She wanted everybody else to enjoy her birthday. She most certainly didn't want to sit alone in her room waiting for other people to finish running laps or staring out of windows.

'Well I'm coming down anyway,' she muttered under her breath, air drawing hot across the rosy lips. 'It's my birthday. I'm allowed to break the rules.'

She opened the door.

* * *

There is one that catches Kakashi's eye today. A man. He looks quite normal from the top. Brown hair, the shade of a chestnut. Skin like creamy yoghurt.

From the side he staggers like he has been shot. His arms, bone white, clutch his chest as though leaves clinging to a branch. Kakashi can see his heart beating through his ribs, like a prisoner begging to slip through the bars and run.

And Kakashi is compassionate.

The smell of warm bread leaks from the kitchen.

Kakashi scratches.

* * *

Sakura made her way quietly down the stairs, feet clothed only in thin cotton socks. She moved with a graceful silence and got right to the bottom of the stairs without being noticed by Sasuke – who, as far as she could see, was on his bed.

She approached silently, a gift-bearing ghost. She would have made it to the bed in absolute quiet had the chocolate wrapper in her hand not chosen an inappropriate moment to rustle slightly. Sasuke's head instantly poked out from between the sheets covering his sleeping area and his eyes widened.

'W—What are you doing here?'

The string of panic (_'Why on earth is he panicking?'_) in his voice put Sakura on edge. Her fingers tightened around their precious cargo.

'I know we have a deal, and I shouldn't have come in according to it, but I didn't want to sit alone on my birthday. Mother and Father are busy. And...' she waved the treasure, 'I have chocolate.'

The hardness on Sasuke's face lessened. He still looked a little exhausted from the past few days. Sakura knew his body would truly take weeks to recover. A little chocolate, she imagined, would be just the thing to bring some colour to that pale face.

She approached the bed and something close to defeat crossed through Sasuke's eyes. It was at this point she also noticed a small pile of tools and wires, near to the bed-area, heaped on the floor like scrap metal. Her expression furrowed in confusion, thinking back to the fragments of inexplicable evidence she had seen before.

'What's all that?'

Sasuke pulled his head inside his shelter again with a sigh. Before Sakura could ask anything else he clambered off his bed and looked down at the tools awkwardly.

'I fell behind, so it's not perfect...'

He smirked. Illness couldn't blot the mild arrogance from him.

'But you're the one who barged down here, so you can chalk any flaws in the design up to your own impatience.'

Sakura almost forgot the dingy darkness of the basement in her absolute confusion. She shook her head.

'What are you talking about?'

He was smirking again. It brought colour to her heart. She watched with a half indignant smile as Sasuke beckoned her forward slightly and pulled back the draping sheets hiding his mattress.

The small oil lamp had been balanced precariously in the corner by Sasuke's flat pillow, and lit the small space like an altar. The grey walls glowed in hallowed, ringed light, and the glimmer crept into Sakura's eyes as she took in the reverent little space.

Four swans, made lovingly with copper and endurance, arranged themselves on the bed before her.

Their bodies were hollow, and blushed a deep copper before her. They had tiny gems for eyes, embedded carefully into the layers of wire that made up each majestic wing and each graceful neck. The beaks had been filled with excess copper and glimmered with a weighty polish. Each swan carried its own personality: a larger one with its wings spread protectively for Father, one with a bent neck in a pecking position for Mother, and two younger swans, one perched comfortably between the two larger models, and one sitting comfortably aloof, body closed off but content.

If she peered closely, Sakura could see that the small swan in the middle of the family had green gems for eyes. The others all had dark ruby eyes that glimmered fondly in the sacred light.

'Happy birthday, Sakura.'

She could cry. The light laughing from the bodies of the swans choked her soul and squeezed tears into her eyes. She was in love. Their tiny bodies, their beautiful imperfections (the Father swan had a slightly wonky wing, and what she assumed was the Sasuke swan was missing an entire leg), their simple grace. The little gemstone eyes smiling at her joy.

The man who poured himself into giving a gift against the odds.

Sakura dropped the prized chocolate and wrapped her arms around Sasuke, who reacted with a shocked jolt and a stiffening back. Her face snuck into his chest and the few tears of happiness she refused to shed disappeared into his thin shirt.

'Thank you.'

Spurred on by an audience of four ever-loving swans, Sakura made to do what she'd thought herself too cowardly to do.

Uchiha Sasuke beat her to it.

He kissed her.

* * *

Kakashi stands on the street. In his hands a loaf of bread. In his heart a misty figure that he can never reach.

He steps away from his door, toward the worm of bodies in the street. The edges of the pavement are lined with Leaf people. Their eyes are unflinching and their hands hold no provision.

Kakashi drops down off the small curb. There are guards here and there but he is quick. Like a soldier avoiding gunshot he begins to move stealthily with the shufflers, quicker and easier. The grind of their feet on the ground is unnerving and heart-suffocating.

He reaches the one he saw. A few of the Leafs on the edge of the picture teeter on the edge of falling in but none dare. They're talking among themselves. His face is easily recognisable. He's Hatake Kakashi, the man who runs the bookshop! His wife is the fiery one who growls at people she doesn't like. Their daughter is adopted – odd parents, apparently. Not at all fitting for the Fourth's regime.

Kakashi is next to the man with the brown hair and hollow chest. He is hurriedly trying to make eye contact. He's not really sure of his own sanity anymore. His hands are clutching the bread so hard that he's leaving imprints in the crust.

Hollow Chest looks at him. His eyes are empty and his face a skull. Kakashi tries to smile but can't quite manage. It's a grimace. Still, he offers the bread boldly. He's not ashamed of his hands.

'What are you doing?'

'Guard, there's a man there who shouldn't be!'

Hollow Chest does what Kakashi does not want. He falls to his knees, clasping the bread, and begins to cry. His face crumples up like useless manuscript and he clings to Kakashi's leg, wailing quietly in incomprehensible gratitude. Kakashi pulls at it, aware now that attention is being drawn. Unwanted eyes are staring.

Worst of all, though, Kakashi knows that he is the one who should be grovelling on the ground. He is the one who should be weeping into Hollow Chest's trousers. He's the one who needs forgiveness here.

* * *

There is always an intimate connection between the good and the bad. A pauper inherits a cherished relative's fortune and so can feed their family. A chicken coop is raided so a fox can eat. A city is destroyed so a war can be won.

A love blossoms in the basement. Tentative hands come to rest on shoulders and parting lips give way to mild, young delight.

A sorrowful man is trapped in a sea of dying human beings. Tears stain his leg more than any blood.

The end of a good, safe time is approaching. It can be so easy to forget that Time hovers over the Leaf Village. His eyes don't miss a thing.

How long do they have?

* * *

Sakura and Sasuke wrench themselves apart as they hear a door slamming upstairs, accompanied by Anko crying out in a voice quite unlike her own. There are heavy footsteps. They both stare at the looming basement door for a solid instant before Sasuke pushes Sakura in the direction of the exit.

'Hurry.'

She flies up the stairs, forgetting to mourn her swans and slamming the basement door behind her protectively. The front door is wide open and Sakura can see a crowd gathering perhaps fifty feet away.

She darts outside.

Her mother, tall and blessed with crane fly limbs, is easy to spot as her skirts bustle and flow. She is running full pelt toward a small gathering of Leafs, _Fang_ guards and starving Reds. They are huddled in a small, irreverent congregation. Sakura sprints at them, her strong, youthful legs carrying her as a leaf in the wind.

She is not prepared to see her Father on his knees before a _Fang_ with a gun. She is not prepared for the whip digging into his back, nor the blood smearing his handsome jacket.

At seventeen, Sakura feels more like a child than ever before. She does not feel able to watch the agony on her Father's face.

'Mother...' she gasps quietly, clinging to familiar cotton arms, 'What's happening? What has he done?'

Anko stares into the crowd with hard, stony eyes. Nobody else can see the tears behind them. 'He gave a load of bread to one of these prisoners.'

Sakura can hardly resist the urge to break down instantly. Her Father – her good, good Father – is so kind that he is made stupid by it. He is hated by those who hate everything else.

The whipping draws to a close, and Kakashi is kicked out of the path of the Red river and into a gutter. Two _Fangs_ look down on him with some disdain.

'We will be seeing you again soon, Sir.'

Kakashi is silent as his wife runs to his side. Sakura wipes unbidden tears from her cheeks, licking her lips and wondering if lipstick always tastes so bitter.

Her Mother is helping the bleeding man in the gutter to sit up. He still seems strong despite the welts on his bare back. They are like paint flecked on by a thin brush.

She would take the time to comfort her now groaning Father if something in the near distance didn't catch her eye. Didn't wrench her head.

Didn't freeze her heart.

'Father...' her voice is stunned and vaguely empty, '... there's a _Fang_ man going into our house.'

* * *

There is always an intimate connection between the good and the bad. The question is, of course, _who_ is blessed with the _good_, and _who_ suffers the _bad_?

How long do they have?

* * *

**A/N:** A huge chapter to welcome you into 2011. Just over words. Apologies if you don't like them long. These events needed to happen.

Next chapter... _Brother Gaiden II_.


	15. Brother Gaiden II

**Red**

**Chapter Fourteen: Brother Gaiden**

**II**

**

* * *

**

You watched Kakashi, only weeks ago, squinting into a thick mist and vowing to help the Red he could see in the distance. You wondered who it was. You wondered if it was Sasuke, drowning in a puddle of sickness in a silent bedroom. Kakashi himself came to that conclusion, and swore he'd do his best to help him and protect him, renewing old vows to another black-haired Red with fire in his eyes from long ago.

Did you forget the Red on his own, hiding in some hole in a far away land?

Did you forget about Itachi?

He is the man buried in the mist. He is staring, always staring, at a figure in the distance who he knows he is entirely unable to reach, a figure with an eye patch and a soft, stupid heart.

He knows there is no way back.

* * *

The rain, he decided, was getting worse.

In the first weeks it drizzled. He hadn't really understood, as his new abode was a few miles outside the borders of the Rain Village, and he'd always expected it to rain here even more than it had been in his home village. Time had proved his expectations correct, and after a few weeks Itachi watched the monsoon season sweep into the land, battering the plains into oblivion and gargling through the scenery. It was terrifying. He'd never seen rain – _rain_, just simple drops of water – move with such viciousness. It made him feel as though he was being watched; a thousand eyes were hidden in each crystal that fell, bouncing from the soil at his feet.

Concealed behind the drapes of water the sun continued to rise and fall, and a year passed with few incidents of note. Itachi lived a frugal, fugitive life. It wasn't particularly hard for him. His life at home wasn't really dissimilar. Food was harder to come by, of course; any money he'd had on him slipped into the murky lake water the night he escaped the _Fang,_ and he could hardly work for a living. Itachi traded in goods, stealing what he could and doing business in shady back alleys where the eyes of the world could not meet his own. That way he maintained a steady income of sustenance for himself and his invalid and could survive in a way that he would almost remember as 'pleasant'.

Shiro – the blonde he had escaped with that awful night in the snow – suffered patiently. She made good company and Itachi didn't really mind taking care of her. She made some efforts to keep house while he was out in the day but couldn't manage as much as she'd like. Still, he appreciated her efforts and enjoyed the late night talks they often shared when the rain howled against their roof.

Waking up from a pool of water and blood in the dark, snow-drifting forest had left the two of them a little lost. Always looking over their shoulders in fear of _Fang_, they'd stumbled back to the wreckage of the train the next day, in the drizzle, and searched for their belongings. Shiro could locate nothing. Itachi found his suitcase but it had been ransacked and the only item left for him to collect was his tatty old trilby, which he placed thankfully back upon his head. As old as it was, it was dear to him. His father's name was stitched on the inside, and, begging to grow up more quickly than he rightfully should, Itachi had begged his mother to stitch _his_ name into the lining too. She'd obliged with tender hands and the word 'Itachi' glowed in bright blue cotton thread on the inside. He liked to imagine that he carried a little part of his mother with him wherever he went. The hat was worth more than all the clothes inside to the owner of the suitcase. Ironically it was the only thing deemed unworthy of theft by the _Fang_ who raided it.

For two days the lonely survivors crossed country with wary eyes and stiff backs. Shiro turned out to be quite decent company and Itachi was glad of her surprisingly cheerful chattering. The landscape on the outskirts of rain was dreary; empty field after empty field of flooded crop disheartened him and her words seemed to bounce along the rows of dead cabbages or uprooted soil with a colourfulness that defied their surroundings. Eventually they found a barn, abandoned and clean enough inside, with hay they could wrap up in and a roof to protect them from the ceaseless dripping.

They fell into each other the moment their backs touched the hay. Staggering across the wet lands had given Itachi ample time to acquaint himself with Shiro's pretty face and pale red eyes. They were almost salmon compared to his. They struck against her blond, long hair softly.

Besides, they had no time to wait, or be gentle with each other's feelings. They knew full well they could be dead in the morning. A Red on the run cared not for the future. All that mattered was staying alive in the present moment, the one slowly ticking away into tomorrow, the one where they were still breathing and still human and still able to feel the world around them.

Wrapped up inside the woman whose hand he had split open only nights before, Itachi felt pleasantly alive. The way she moved told him she felt the same.

For warmth they'd dressed afterwards, still huddling together and burying themselves in the murky-smelling hay. The barn was dark and they slept soundly, heat crossing from one body to the other in a quiet sort of dance.

They woke up in the morning as the door to the barn slammed open and two _Fangs_ let the sunlight in.

* * *

Time found them one year later in the basement of an abandoned farm, one slinking out in the darkness of the pre-dawn sky and wheeling in the back alleys of the Rain Village, and one nursing a wound that would not heal and doing her best to smile through a truth she could not escape.

Try as he might, Itachi could not trade for doctor's services. Every day he came home with bits of food stuffed into his coat pocket (another acquired item), hair brushes, pieces of clothing and all sorts of nonsense that those living in comfort take for granted. Yet no matter how many enquiries he made, nor how many contacts he approached, he could find no doctor willing to help a Red-in-hiding. Shiro's wound was in her left calf, where a lucky bullet had caught her in the scramble to escape the barn the year before. Itachi had painstakingly removed the bullet almost immediately (a memory he was not fond of) but the wound refused to close and remained open, sore, and often infected.

Itachi feared for his companion's health. He feared more for her life than his own. She made his long nights bearable with her soft talk and gentle determination. Having her around stopped him thinking of home too much, of other Reds and what their fate may be...

There was one doctor who met him (in complete secrecy, of course) once weekly. He could not risk stealing any specific treatments from his surgery but he brought small bottles of what he described as 'pain relief' for Itachi to administer to Shiro if the pain of her wound became too great. Itachi valued and came to depend on this doctor. His treatments gave Shiro such relief in the dark, rain-littered nights. He understood, though, every time the doctor shook his head when Itachi begged him to come and look at her wound. Take note of her fever. Examine her skinny body.

He was nothing, of course, if not resourceful. A careful few weeks of watching delivery carts and small trucks of stock being dropped off at various shops at the beginning of their stay in Rain allowed Itachi to create a running itinerary of goods passing in and out of the village. At first he'd stolen from the carts, taking what he could until he was caught and forced to steal from another cart. Soon after he began to barter with drivers – they were all corrupt and times were hard (as far as he could gather, times had _always_ been hard for the Rain village), and he was yet to meet the driver who could turn down an extra ration of eggs and cheese for his family in return for a couple of books, or a sheet of cloth, or a bundle of cheap wire. His smooth-talking manner won even the burliest of drivers or workers over and he soon had a small sort of business going. He traded his goods along a particularly ill-policed network of alleyways and soon the small basement he and Shiro shared was full of extra blankets, clothes, jewellery and long-life rations and tins.

None of this could save Shiro.

Itachi was well aware that without proper treatment the infection in Shiro's wound was spreading throughout her body. She ate well but grew thinner. She smiled but her skin was pale and lifeless. As the rain got worse and worse Shiro did too, and Itachi, who had spent his life longing to provide better rations, more blankets, more fun things for himself and his brother, realised that nothing he could bring to their small home would be able to stop her from slipping away from him one night.

He didn't think he loved her. She was an excellent companion, and they'd shared a bed of straw once, but she didn't make him giddy. He put his fear of her leaving down to his own selfish need for companionship rather than anything else. However he categorised it, the dread he felt at the thought of her death refused to lessen, and it began to haunt their conversations in the evening as they shared their small meals together.

It was this – and, he supposed, the aggressive, insistent rain – that drove him to become more impulsive in his work. Just on one particularly day. In one particular moment of madness.

Due to the weight of the weather on this day the majority of Rain citizens wore their hoods over their heads. Itachi made himself no exception (he was becoming a master of infiltration) and wore his hood over his head, masking his bright eyes. Normally he didn't worry too much about the glow of his eyes in the grey rain. There were a few other Reds in the lurking alleys and they were treated with respect as long as they had goods to offer. It was coming out of the alleys where he had to be careful, where the eyes of well position _Fang_ could spot a Red from the posture of his nervous spine.

When he felt the moment was right, Itachi pulled his sprawling hood tight over his hat and head, masking his long black hair and telltale eyes, and dropped into the street.

He headed quickly for the address he had stored in his memory long ago; that of the doctor who supplied pain relief for Shiro. He kept her pretty face in his mind as his heart banged his chest like the fists of an unruly child in a cot. Reaching the surgery was quick and painless, and Itachi slipped in easily, hood still up, like a shadow disappearing in the dawn.

White, sterile stairs lead to what Itachi assumed to be the reception area. He moved up them silently but for the soft dripping of water from his drenched overcoat. They opened out into a spacious, almost empty reception. A chic woman sat at the desk, and gave him a nod when he stepped into the room.

'Good afternoon, Sir. May I be of assistance?'

Itachi sized her up quickly. Well dressed. Makeup applied neatly. A polite expression that could melt into a sneer at any given moment.

He doubted she would sympathise with his predicament.

Approaching the desk with his hood still up, he decided to take the confident initiative. 'Afternoon, ma'am. I don't have an appointment, but would really like to see Doctor Iyazawa, if you can fit me in.'

The receptionist stared up at him momentarily. 'Are you registered with this surgery?'

He could see her suspicion from beneath the brow of his hat. 'No. He has been recommended to me by a friend.'

'What's the name of the friend?'

Itachi's hopes were sinking. The receptionist may or may not suspect him. Her face was a blank despite the scepticism in her tone.

'Please, ma'am, if I could just see Doctor Iyazawa... it's very urgent...'

Her eyes narrowed, but before she could speak the noise of expensive shoes squeaking on the ground interrupted.

'What are you doing here?'

Itachi whirled around on the spot to face Doctor Iyazawa, whose face looked entirely different in the light falling through the windows.

'She's dying,' he began, meeting the Doctor's gaze bravely. 'She needs you to look at her. Please, come and see h-'

The words carved themselves into his lips and refused to let go as the Doctor wrenched down his hood and knocked his trilby to the ground.

'There's a Red here! A _RED_!'

Any colour Itachi had retained spilled from his face like wine from a glass. He couldn't remove his widened eyes from the gaze of the Doctor, who had given Shiro so much, who was attempting to deliver him to his punishment.

'Wh—what are you-?'

The receptionist was standing in shock, and the Doctor was scowling at him hard, as though he was a stain on a pristine window. Before they could say anything else Itachi grabbed his hat from the ground and darted out of the surgery, taking the stairs three at a time, and skidded out onto the street.

The Doctor was hot on his heels. '_Fang! _There's a Red here! _HURRY_!'

The muddied streets of the Rain village did little to help Itachi as he sprinted through them, coat tails flying behind him. He clutched his hat to his head and tried to ignore the pointing fingers of people latching on to his existence, pointing their fingers and encouraging the two chasing _Fang_ to unstitch him from the tapestry of their lives. The rain bled onto his skin as he swept through it, all panic and desperation, longing for a moment when he could dive into a side street or alleyway and cower away from the world.

After five minutes of running he was forced to stop and catch his breath. He glanced wildly behind him, trying to see clearly through the long strands of hair that fell about his white face. The outskirts of the village were quieter, and as far as he could see he had lost the two brutes tailing him. He dipped into a slender side street and leaned against a crooked wall, audibly ripping breath from the air and indulging the demands of his angry lungs. He'd never felt so betrayed. Orochimaru's government had been cruel to him his whole life, and, although the treatment of Reds had gradually gotten worse over time, Itachi never felt as though he'd had any privileges torn away from him. This was entirely different. Doctor Iyazawa had helped him; gone out of his way, in fact, to help him. When a bedraggled, fraught Red turned up in his office, however, he'd done the exact opposite – turned him in publically to cover his own connections with the underground Red community of the Rain Village.

He'd never expected to see such hypocrisy.

Ten minutes passed slowly, and Itachi spent those minutes barely blinking. His eyes were locked on his environment, waiting for a _Fang_ guard to round the corner and discover him. When he had caught his breath sufficiently, he forced his knees into action and straightened up, ignoring the distant peal of thunder in the sky and making his way back through the alleyways to the edge of the village.

The rain fell upon him despicably hard, and Itachi thought, briefly, of Sasuke. He wondered what he was doing at this exact moment. Was he safe, curled up warm in the comfort of a house with bricks and food and peace? Was he dead, face down in a street somewhere or strung up like a prize hunting catch?

Was he looking up into the rain, eyes unblinking despite the onslaught of water attacking them, wondering where his brother was, and if he was alive or dead?

Itachi wiped the rainwater from his eyes and continued across the sodden fields, feet trudging in the mud. He had Shiro to take care of, for now. She was something he could focus on to keep the sound of the rain from his ears.

The basement was locked away by a rusty, raised trapdoor, which Itachi swung open with no hesitation. Thunder rolled again, closer now, barking through the gathered clouds intent on being heard. Scowling at the heavens, Itachi clambered into his safe haven, pulling the trap doors shut behind him to block out the dreadful day.

Shiro was strewn across the floor of the basement.

Her face was turned away, but a dark stain swelled around her head, catching some of her bright blond hair and drowning it. She was completely still, and Itachi immediately knew she was dead.

Bile rose in his throat but he fought it down bravely, swallowing hard and trying to gather his thoughts. Shiro was dead, which probably meant the Doctor had disclosed their location to the _Fang_, who had arrived here before Itachi did. They'd shot Shiro, a helpless invalid, on sight. They could be here, or they could have left to look for him. The contents of the basement remained untouched. He assumed they planned to come back.

'_I hope you never feel this, Sasuke...'_

Behind him, the doors to the basement were creaking open. The rain slipped in unnoticed, a devil crawling into a child's bedroom at night.

'_I hope... you never know what it feels like...'_

A wide shotgun was pointed at him by gloved brown hands. Itachi stared the barrel down in frozen terror. The rain screamed in his ears.

'_... to have nowhere left to run...'_

A crack of lightening split the sky in two like a bullet cutting air. Moments later, thunder rolled, glorious and omnipotent, avoidable by none.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I'd like to say a quick thank you to Janine, my fabulous editor, Jane to my Lizzy. Also Martin, who took the time to read this, as a favour.

I'd also like to thank my wonderful reviewers – your loyalty to this story is touching and inspires me to write when the words won't come. In particular I'd like to give a quick shout to the following, who review very consistently and put the fuel in my tank:

- hilariously . not. funny (thank you for your dedication... had to put mad spaces in your name)

- Modo-chan (thank you for your honest praise!)

- UglyTruth (thank you for being honest with your feelings. You should feel no shame!)

- haliz (thank you for letting this story play with your emotions)

- Sauru Tsukiyumi Sanbi's Faeble (thank you for letting me use your character, Shiro, and your patient and dedicated feedback)

- Gnau (thank you for your intelligence)

- Shvesta (thank you for your small, but meaningful, comments)

- Lady-May-May (thank you for being so responsive!)

- Thequeensfool-x (thank you for sharing a love of history)

If I haven't mentioned you that doesn't mean I don't appreciate your reviews – they ALL make me feel super happy. Above are reviewers who review every single chapter, despite me being rubbish and updating slowly (although this has been a quick update, right?). You are all so wonderful, and so are all my little shadow readers! Thank you for your support.

Next chapter is the end of Part One of this story. Then dawns Part Two, which shall be shorter but more intense, I believe. *needs to plan part two*

Did I mention it was in parts? ...

Let me know what you think!

**Sherby X**


	16. The Things We Love

**Red Chapter 15: The Things We Love**

* * *

In a house in the wealthier side of the village, an event of unlikely dimensions is taking place.

Two people are poring over a hastily scribbled map and marking it with bold red crosses. Quiet words slip between them like mice darting into holes. It is almost entirely dark, because the windows have been blacked out. For security. A small lamp burns in vigilance on the table.

Through the tense focus of their work, the two are wholly aware that their heads sometimes bump, and their hair brambles together like the clashing of dawn and dusk. They know full well that the small, squinting map has brought them into very, _very_ close proximity; close enough that they can smell each other. The faint spice of noodles, and softly baked bread.

With each gentle utterance, with each mark on the map, they draw closer to one another. With each strategic decision or ponderous pause they pull, in invisible inches, the other toward them.

When they finally do meet, their lips are chewed and nervous. Their touch is weighed by the gravity of nights spent passing loaves of meagre salvation up to quaking, dirt-smattered fingers. The tremors in their bodies clang with need.

For a sweet couple of minutes, the map (and the bread, and the mud, and the darkness, and the exhaustion) is forgotten. They can feel only each other, and their nervousness soon begins to taste of young excitement and possibility.

They really have no clue what is happening on _Tengoku _Street.

* * *

Sakamoto Kaito is feeling fed up. It is near the end of his shift (which has been drawn out to an unnaturally long length by the sluggishness of the hobbling Reds) and he really could do without a commotion. The dull ache of the sky as it fritters into a deep summer dusk reminds him of the comparative lateness of the hour, and he frowns mildly at the fingertips of rain on his face.

He takes a moment to adjust his belt, hitching up his brown trousers. Only a month ago these trousers were a little tight. Long shifts filled with thousands of watchful steps have bled the weight off him and he's probably the thinnest he's been since he first joined _Fang_. He doesn't really know whether to be glad of it or not. His wife thinks it's good for him, and he certainly feels healthier, in himself, but he wonders if losing all that weight so quickly can be good for a man of thirty-two. Previously to his work on the _Shelter Spot _unit he was sat in an office, drawing up plans for city-wide expansions and researching localisation. However roughly five months ago the Allied Forces, in their attempt to resist the sheer might of Orochimaru, had taken the war to the skies, and had started launching aerial attacks on major cities and landmarks across the Land of Fire. The results were (he hated to admit it) devastating.

The Fourth's army was, of course, fighting back. But in the meantime it was the _Fang_'s job to protect the worthy lives of Leaf citizens, and a small squad had been set up with the sole purpose of finding suitable air-raid shelters for them to take refuge in when the assaults fell. Itchy feet behind a desk compelled Kaito to act and within two weeks he was walking the streets of the Leaf Village, examining the properties he suspected may be of use to the _Shelter Spot _squad and ultimately of use to the people living all around it. He is usually placed on Red marches to offer extra support but to this date he has found his presence to be markedly unnecessary.

He has noticed his commanding officer (a fairly vicious gentleman named Inuyaza Moshi) coming down hard on what looks like a Leaf Citizen trying to help a Red (to be honest, he sees quite a lot of that, which he finds surprising) and just as the first crack of the whip flies through the air Kaito decides that he is bored. A few feet to his left a door has just slammed open and a gangly woman, followed shortly by a teenage girl, race out onto the street. He assumes there is some connection. There is a strangled, muffled exclamation of pain in the direction of Inuyaza and his whip, but Kaito zones it out and concentrates on the house with the gaping blue door.

He is sure he has seen it before. He is undeniably certain that its picture has appeared in his research files.

This house has a guaranteed large-scale basement installation, and he is going to take a look around.

* * *

'Father... there's a _Fang_ man going into our house.'

The man with the whip is gone, and Kakashi scrambles to his feet with an eerie light-headedness he hasn't felt in many years. The world suddenly seems horrendously familiar. Deep marks gripping into his back slow his progress and his wife's hands are gently pulling at his torso, insisting he stop moving and let her comfort him a little more, but he doesn't have time. His daughter's eyes are wide and stunned, and she is rigid with panic. He can see the brown back of the _Fang_ entering into his house, but there is something more pressing in his eyes that he knows he must deal with.

There is a vulture perched on the roof of his house.

Its yellowing legs are glowing in the light summer rain, and Kakashi can make out its claws, buried in the curve of the gutter. Its eyes are furious, feral red, and it is watching the _Fang_ with an impossible grin across its beak.

For the first time in more or less twenty years, Kakashi is afraid.

Ignorant of the weeping of his back as he moves, he focuses on his steps, feeling the paving beneath each coiled up arch as he walks. Anko is at his side and she's saying something but he can't hear; the noises don't register.

All he can see is the black, feathery wings. And the man in the basement.

He is at the front door before he is really aware that he has arrived. It has closed over gently and he is scared to press his hands against it. Scared of what he may see in his own tiny hallway.

Sakura is behind him, anxious, balancing like a crow on his sore shoulders. Her hair brushes his bruised jacket.

'Wait, Sakura.'

He can't allow her to burst in. He can't allow her tears to alert the _Fang_ to anything unusual. He can feel the terror blistering in her gaze.

'Just wait a minute.'

He tries to keep his voice calm and reassuring but he knows the pain and the fear are leaking through badly sewed patchwork. He mumbles something to himself that he can't quite hear and then pushes against the melancholy front door.

The corridor of hallway sparks with wet light, and Kakashi can instantly make out the _Fang _guard's shadow, creeping from the entrance to the basement. It is pitch and he thinks of the vulture on the guttering. He knows it is pecking away at the stable little life they have so painstakingly constructed for themselves.

His voice has to be stronger. _Has _to be stronger! He can't give it away. It is a cracked rock in his throat.

'Would-' he pauses, clears his throat. 'Would you like some tea?'

The shadow stiffens as though jolted with tremulous ice. Footsteps echo with a hint of aggression and Kakashi wonders if he is too late. Is there another shadow with this one? Is it moving?

A face in its early thirties swims around the basement door. It is not as ugly as Kakashi had imagined.

'Afternoon, Sir.'

He doesn't really know how to respond.

'I'm with the _Shelter Spot_ corps. We're trying to establish which local basements will serve well as air raid shelters. Mind if I have a look around?'

His voice is neither chilling nor accusatory, but Kakashi has to swallow the hot taste of vomit from his mouth before he replies. Sakura is tense and fearful behind him. Anko's gaze towers over the hall.

'Not at all.' Kakashi says quietly, smiling warmly. 'Please excuse the mess down there.'

'Don't worry about it. Tea sounds lovely. Thank you.'

The surprisingly pleasant-faced guard gives a curt nod before slipping back into the basement.

The pain seeping out of his back becomes too much, and Kakashi staggers into the kitchen, clumsily pulling a chair from beneath the kitchen table and slumping into it. Sakura sits at his feet and Anko lights the stove with a smelly match. The noise of water as it fills the tinny kettle makes the hairs on Kakashi's arms rise.

'We have to be completely normal,' he says quietly, peering around at his two girls with his good eye. 'That guard can't be allowed to suspect _anything_...'

Sakura nods, eyes teary with fear. 'Father, your back...'

'It's nothing,' he smiles, reassuring as always. 'Just a few cuts and bruises.'

Her face is disbelieving, but the lie comforts him, so he sticks to it and keeps the smile pinned into his cheeks. His mind is split into quarters, and each segment is throbbing and squealing for attention:

One: The agony gouged across his back by a _Fang_ soldier with a whip.

Two: The faces of his wife and daughter, soon to be removed by _Fang_ if a certain secret is leaked.

Three: The secret itself, hiding in a burrow of bed sheets from a hunting _Fang _guard.

Four: The vulture on the gutter, which started following him long before _Fang _arrived but seems most at home whenever they're around.

Kakashi despises the common denominator.

The kettle, hovering over the lit stove, is whistling, and Anko pours some tea with a practised grace. Her long fingers dance across the cups, and her skirt swishes efficiently around her ankles. Before Kakashi can stop her she marches out of the kitchen, steam from a hot mug foaming around her face.

'Sir?' she is shouting abrasively. 'Sir!"

She knocks on the door to the basement. Kakashi's body is stiff, and Sakura's open eyes fill his vision. He can feel the vulture peering in through the walls, omnipotent glare mocking the defiance of their actions. Outside, the dusk is dying into night.

'SIR!' Anko's voice is bordering on offensive. 'Your tea is ready! Shall I bring it down?'

There is a silent, full pause in which Kakashi nearly chokes on his own breath. Everything hangs on this reply. Their existence is as fragile as the steam hissing from the hot tea.

Moments stretch past. They are loaded and crisp, like the breaking of rain upon the ground. There are footsteps on the stairs. The moments stretch with each step.

Step.

Stretch.

Step.

Stretch.

'Thank you, Ma'am. I must say, this mild summer heat has parched my throat.'

Anko's smiles are audible as she speaks. 'I can imagine. Do you work very long hours?'

'_They're having a conversation,'_ Kakashi wonders as the guard replies. _'There's a secret in the basement, and my wife and a _Fang_ guard are having a conversation at the top of the basement stairs...'_

In moments like this, Kakashi is reminded of how much he loves his wife. He peers out of the kitchen and watches her, chatting animatedly with the _Fang_ guard, hands waving and body moving at ease.

'So, what do you think?' she is saying. 'Is our little basement good enough to be an air raid shelter? We'd need to give it a good clean, of course...'

'Yes, it is certainly a bit messy!' the guard smiles. 'But you don't need to rush. It's far too small to act as a shelter. It's solid enough, of course – would probably survive a blast, but there's hardly any room down there.'

The next moments spiral past Kakashi in a heady, hazy crush. The pulsing in his back is growing harder to ignore and he succumbs to it for a few brief moments, vision disappearing against the cold flash of the table on his forehead. When he opens his eyes again he is in the hall, moving toward the basement of his own volition. Anko is waving politely at the guard, and the final efforts of today's sun cast long into the hall. Kakashi scowls at a glimpse of feathered shadows as he ducks into the basement.

Sakura steps at his heels, tremulous movements causing him to feel more nervous than he need be. The _Fang_ is gone. They are safe again.

Why does he feel so exposed?

He is in the basement. The floor is always so cold. His is clambering between stacks of paint pots. He wonders briefly if the guard had been fooling them, if he had been smiling through a dead body and an outed secret.

Kakashi pulls back the makeshift curtain hiding the evidence of the secret.

He is squatted on the bed, a chisel grasped white in his right hand. The look on his face is unnaturally fierce. His hair pollutes his criminal eyes.

He is a wild animal.

Both Sakura and her Father stare at the chisel, its sharp edges ungleaming and wieldy in the basement darkness. It is wavering with an uncertainty untraceable in the fugitive's face.

'I wouldn't have used it,' he stutters, clearly taken aback by the identity of his visitors. 'I just...'

Kakashi gives a grim snort. How drastic could the ramifications of the criminal's actions have been? Ultimately it would be nothing more than another secret, desperate to be kept.

'Yes, you would, Sasuke,' he smiles darkly. 'You would have no choice in the matter.'

A slump of relief, immediate and consciously fleeting, seems to breathe across the house. It is a gentle, uneasy sort of respite from the knowledge that none of this can last. Each of their lives is contained in a faded, printed picture, protected by a slim layer of dirty glass. It is being cracked, insistently, by the pecks of a crumbling society, by faces turned away or faces too close for comfort, or by a falling, darkening sky.

There are only so many pecks the glass can take.

Before it breaks.

* * *

It is coming, now. You can feel it. None of us are as stupid as we look. Kakashi is not unusual in being able to see the future. Even if it is blurry, like an unfamiliar forest swimming in front of our eyes, we can all feel it coming, and it makes the hair on our arms stand to attention.

Because there is nothing we can do to stop it.

* * *

Two days later, on a drizzly Saturday morning, Kakashi sits at the desk in his basement. He hasn't used it for a long time now. A fine smothering of dust lies across it, like ice on mud. Sasuke is breathing gently in the background; Kakashi thinks he is sleeping. He is glad. He is in need of solitude.

There is an unfolded letter in his hands. He grips it hard, resisting the desire to tear it into snowy pieces and scatter it on the desk. It is unnaturally white and brisk. He can hardly meet its gaze.

_Hatake Kakashi._

_Order of Conscription._

The unhealed wounds across his back, still bleeding in the night when he moves in his sleep, swell with grotesque pride as he reads – and re-reads – the letter. There are old images behind his eyes as the text filters into his brain: uprooted grass, watery trenches, glimmering, spider web barbed wire. A deep red eye, bleeding into the ground like a casket into a grave.

The text disappears, and the horrors of Kakashi's life begin to dance before him on the crisp paper. They are animated with sketchy, cheap lines and straggly ends. Blood runs from the paper onto the desk, staining the fresh snow of dust with thick ruby clots. He can feel himself being pulled into the paper, into a past and a future that co-exist with frightening turbulence beneath the still water of his present. His head throbs, and the eye beneath the eye patch is blazing.

A hand is on his shoulder. It is cold compared to the heat of the trench. It pulls him into the basement again and he is facing a letter spelling his own name.

Sasuke is beside him. His eyes, always bright, no matter how dark the room, are taking in the words.

_Hatake Kakashi. _

_Order of Conscription._

'Have you told them yet?'

A miserable shake of a grey old head. A tighter squeeze of the shoulder.

Together, two criminals face the uncompromising blankness of the letter. Its sterility pounds them into silence.

A vulture is picking at the pavement outside.

* * *

Two more days sees black hair fusing with pink as young, desperate people speak with their bodies. In the light of a glimmering oil lamp two shadows touch nervously. The movement of their bodies lapses and lulls like gentle rhyme. Their faces are hot and hungry as they come together, hands grasping ambitiously at what they feel they cannot hold for long.

Everything is so fleeting. Even their shadows will be gone when the lamp burns out.

* * *

It is Kakashi's penultimate day of freedom. He has told Anko, and she has cried her bitter, strong tears. Sakura does not know. It is a cool Friday evening, and she is practising for a test on Monday down in the basement.

He would rather not ruin it for her.

Anko will not cry in front of her family. When upset she religiously shuts herself away, only allowing the occasional audible glimpse into the quick sobs of her distress. She emerges fresh-faced and hard as ever, armed with broomsticks and mops and clambering about the house with furious passion. Kakashi doubts there is any better way of coping for her.

He doesn't really know how he is coping. He feels like the rain hammering on the ground outside, sunshine gliding through his body at unspoken, unreliable intervals. His life is unpredictable and shifting. The future and the past are one now. He knows – and does not know – what to expect.

He knows his daughter is down in the basement. He does not know what she is doing. But he knows her time is running out, and he knows he must give her away at some point.

Kakashi watches his wife as she scrubs a sideboard with horrendous rage. He wonders how hard it will be to say goodbye to her when he finally leaves.

* * *

'What's wrong?'

Sasuke starts. He has been staring at the dim ceiling, picturing the park and the blue sky. The air is warm on his face – the rain of spring is beginning to stretch into the long, sweltering summer heat, the one where the stars are invisible until midnight.

'Nothing.' His reply is distant; his voice is echoing across the gentle moving waters of the lake in the park. 'I'm alright.'

'No you're not – are you sick again?'

A hand on his forehead nearly shatters the greenery. He blinks and focuses on a small flowering plant on the side of the path. He breathes in the air; it is moist and balmy.

'I'm not sick. I'm just thinking.'

There are some small birds floating on the surface of the lake. Their small feet do not even struggle as they move along. Their feathers glisten merrily in the sun.

'What are you thinking about?'

His brother is watching from a bench. He has taken his hat off, and his hair is scraped back from his face for ventilation. Sasuke runs harder, to impress. He can feel Kakashi's eyes on him from somewhere in the park.

His feet grind the gravel of the path. The sun almost blinds him.

'Oy – what are you thinking about?'

His brother smiles.

'Nothing.'

He is staring up at the dim ceiling. The park is an awfully long way away.

'Nobody ever thinks about _nothing_, Sasuke.'

He is smiling outside without smiling inside. He owes her enough to make her feel happy.

'Alright,' he rolls over to look at her, lying beside him on the bed. 'Try and guess what I was thinking about.'

Her face lights up; she knows he is back with her, for now. Even in the dinge of the basement he has started to get accustomed to watching her eyes sparkle like a cat's. The colour in them is irrepressible.

'Hmm...' She is curled up comfortably, and the warmth of her body is mildly addictive. 'You had a happy look on your face, so it must have been something nice.'

He resists a frown. 'Was I smiling?'

'No, but you looked happy. Smiles aren't the only way to tell if somebody is happy.'

A shrug. She's right. The tiny window is permitting them a small frame of afternoon sunlight, and it dances along the tantalising dip of her body, where rib gives way to waist, and where waist gives way to hip. His fingers itch to touch the slope.

'I only imagine there to be a few things that make you truly happy.'

His eyebrows raise at that one. Her words are almost a challenge. He meets the bottle green of her eyes with his own crimson ones.

'Such as?'

She smiles. 'Thinking about your shop. I suppose you had a nice life there, before all this. And I know you like to keep your hands busy...'

Is she flirting with him?

'... so I would imagine you were at your happiest working on a hot blade. Am I right?'

He gives her a small sigh. 'The metalwork was only part of it.'

'Of course. Your family. Your mother and your father. And Itachi.'

He doesn't move. He doesn't need to.

'You were thinking about Itachi.'

She has queried him enough. He doesn't feel comfortable in the corner, exposed and raw, the way she gets him. He doesn't like how easy she makes it.

He props himself up on his elbow, forgetting the ceiling and the park and the past. He is dangerously close to her. The light swims across her body and he longs to copy it.

'Not all the things that make me happy are in the past, you know.'

'No?' Her smile is winking.

'No.'

He puts an end to the teasing and is upon her, jealous of the fingers of light playing with her hair and trailing down the soft skin of her neck. He can taste her surprise, although she is not unwilling. After a moment of startled tension, she softens into him, sinking into the cup of his hands as he settles around her form.

His pleasure is tainted, but he can't stop himself. There are things approaching that Sakura cannot discern; perhaps she has some small inkling, like a sixth sense, but Sasuke is keener than that. He shook – shook hard – the evening his tiny world was pierced by a uniformed invader, and he'd shocked himself when he'd looked into his hand and seen a chisel in his grasp. Seemingly hours later he found Kakashi nearly weeping into his desk, a notice of immediate conscription chained to his fingers. Each morning, as the sun rises through the little window into his little life, he wonders if he will see it set – if _any _of them will see it set. As the seconds trail idly, hastily by, he watches a feathered shadow creep closer to his window, trying to blot out the day. He won't admit it, but he is uneasy, and he knows that, like a venomous snake, a time of change is about to strike.

Each moment – he is atop her now, and her hips are writhing beneath his own – each glorious, wondrous moment – her lips are hot and innocent, her skin sleek and tempting – is short-lived and explosive. She lets his hand tiptoe up her belly, flat and soft. She breathes out slowly and the air strokes his face. He rolls her over, desperate for the view, desperate to see her body – fiery, fleeting – atop his own.

His head hits the pillow, and her scent fills his body. Daring, he looks at the light, letting himself be blinded momentarily as his pupils adjust.

He thinks about the things that make him happy.

The things he loves.

There is a face at the window.

Sasuke freezes. The world stops completely.

The eyes are blue – giveaway blue. For a desperate moment he hopes it is Naruto. It is not. The hair is long, and more silver than sunshine.

He scrambles into a sitting position – Sakura cries out softly, startled. The eyes squint, and the mouth starts making shapes that Sasuke cannot hear. His head is wild.

They've been caught.

_They've been caught. _

'Sasuke, what's wro-"

'There's someone at the window.'

The happiness bleeds from her eyes. He wishes he hadn't said it.

'We have to move.'

Sakura is whipping her head around – she sees the eyes and her shoulders sag.

'It's Ino.'

Sasuke's hands are still on her, still clutching to her body as though she were about to melt, like a sandcastle in a wave. They move up to her shoulders. His eyes are bloody and dark.

'Sakura...'

She is trembling in his hands.

'I'm sorry.'

A pit of something she doesn't recognise seems to erupt in her stomach. Fear laces her arms stiffly to her torso and her body refuses to respond to the muffled sort of screaming behind her eyes. She closes them. She isn't brave enough to look at the walls of her world as they crumble into unlucky oblivion.

'Stay focused.'

The slam of the cold floor blasting at her back takes her by surprise. Sakura's eyes snap open. The whole world is red. The face at the window is watching in anger.

Sasuke is ripping at her top.

'You need to be trembling a bit when they come down here,' he is saying. 'I can't act this out all on my own. I need you screaming, not shell-shocked.'

She is confused. Everything is being mashed into one blurry, chewy mess of rich ruby. The air scratches her chest as buttons pop and fly.

'Make sure you agree with everything I say. Got it?'

She can't stop looking at the window. Sasuke is slapping her face, but she can't stop looking at the window. Nothing is making sense.

There are more faces. It all looks to be official now.

'Sakura! Pay attention!'

Something brings her back – not his words, she thinks, but the words behind them. All of a sudden she can feel the trembling of his thin legs as he straddles her viciously.

'Sasuke...'

'Whatever happens, remember what I'm saying now.'

'The faces are gone, and there's an unusual thudding upstairs. Her Father is shouting something but the sound is suffocated.

Sasuke leans low to her. His teeth are digging into her neck. She feels him drawing blood. He is shuddering.

'The time I have had here...' Her blood is smearing across his white teeth, 'means more to me than anything.'

His voice is shaking.

'I won't forget.'

The door is hammering. The basement feels hotter than it ever has – the air is burning her exposed skin. The walls are slipping away into a bubbling scarlet sea, and she is floating in it, eyes wide and unseeing.

At the window, a vulture is looking in at her. Its feathers are black and its eyes are vicious.

She screams just as the door splits open.

* * *

You and the vulture are watching as Sasuke is hauled off Sakura's stiff, open body by furious hands. You and the vulture are watching as they force him against a basement wall, coughing indecipherable, spiny words at his form. There are bruises forming on his skin, under his shirt. He is dizzy from their insistent knocking of his skull against the stone surface.

You are watching, always watching, with the Vulture perched on your shoulder. You are standing in the room, vomiting insults and poison as a young criminal is crushed against a wall of hatred.

You will not stop watching. You hover closer, beak at the ready for a hot, fresh soul.

The longer you watch, the longer this will take.

In fact, if you shut your eyes, all of this will stop.

Won't it?

* * *

A weight is removed from her roughly, and her body judders against the floor. Unfamiliar hands wrap around her shoulders just as the world comes back into horrendously sharp focus.

Strangers fill the basement. Ino, a girl from an old life, with an old mind, is yelling profanities, every muscle in her body hissing. There are two _Fang_ guards, decorated uniforms glinting in the chaos. Her Father's face hovers at the doorway, grey and sick.

Sasuke is rammed, on his knees, into the wall, hands locked behind his back. The mouth of a pistol chews on his hair.

Sakura hears herself screaming again. There are words falling out like pieces of glass.

'WAIT!'

She scrambles to her feet, pulling the remnants of her torn blouse to her chest. She knows she must be hard if she wishes to save a life.

'Before you kill him,' she growls through tears that have come from nowhere, 'I want to hear what he has to say for himself. Why is this filthy Red in my basement?'

The venom in her voice amazes even her own ears. She pauses for a moment to take in the two brutes pushing Sasuke's face against the cement. They're wide and rough.

One of them clips Sasuke hard on the scalp with the butt of the gun. 'You heard the lady.'

Sakura winces. She can already see the blood on the end of the gun, glossy in Sasuke's hair. Her Father is suddenly standing beside her.

'I've been here a few days,' rasps Sasuke's voice, thick and heavy. 'Hiding.'

'Why did you attack my daughter?' Kakashi says, calmly. Sakura instantly knows he believes none of it. Her Father is sharp. He has caught onto the game without being told the rules.

Another snap of the gun shank, this time against the temple. Sakura closes her heart to the sound of a wet cry, and steels herself.

'... Fresh meat.'

It rolls off Sakura like mindless rain. The words he says now are nothing to the words he said moments before.

'_Sakura..._'

'_I won't forget._'

She has almost forgotten about Ino, whose voice suddenly screeches into the scene.

'He was going to rape her, I just know it! He was all over her, throwing her onto the floor and pinning her down!'

The _Fang_ spin him round, holding him by his hair. There is blood snaking into his left eye. It has puddled on the rim and is leaking down his face.

He manages a grin while the barrel acquaints itself once again with his temple. Sakura is impressed.

'Thanks for the hospitality.'

It is aimed at her Father, and Sakura nearly falters. Sasuke's voice is bitter and nettled, like a true criminal's. Sarcasm drips from his lips. The _Fang_ hackle at his audacity.

She and her Father both see the true gratitude in his offending eyes.

The trigger is being squeezed. His eyes are locked onto hers. As brave as he is, there is fear painted into them, as clear as the words on the basement wall.

Sakura makes the most selfish decision she has ever made.

'Wait.'

Her voice is cold and eerily calm. The finger of the _Fang_ with the gun hesitates, playing with the coil of the trigger teasingly. The other guard stares at her in confusion.

'I don't want his blood spilled in this basement,' she says, eyes to the floor now, unable to look at the man she is condemning. 'In fact, I don't want his blood at all. If you kill him you will release him of the guilt he should feel for his actions.'

Her heart is bleeding. Sakura is blossoming.

'He held me down, and bit me, and said the most awful things...' She is crying. False tears glimmer like the eyes of the swans near the bed. They watch her judgementally.

'He said after he took me, he would take my Mother...'

She hears her Father swallow. The _Fang _are bristling. They tighten their grip in his matted hair. Ino looks slightly green.

Sakura narrows her eyes. 'I want him to suffer.'

She meets his eyes now. He stares deep into her. She knows what she is doing.

'Send him to 001.'

* * *

As with a glass frame cracking, the most dramatic point is the impact. As the serene film shatters, the shockwave is astounding, and the once finite, still layer of existence is thrown into a chaotic emptiness. The moments afterwards, however, are always still. The shards of something once perfect turn in the air as gently as leaves in a breeze, rolling and yawing on the drop. Their movement is beautiful, and horrendously peaceful. Their tranquillity does not betray the turmoil they have been thrown into.

The extraction of Sasuke from Sakura's life is much the same.

She is completely still as the husky _Fang_ haul a bleeding Sasuke to his feet and stab him with a few more insults. They are laughing at her hardness and his weakness. Kakashi holds her hand, the comforting Father to the shaken, abused daughter. She doesn't need to hold it back. She is being strong to save a life. Her stillness will hold the world together.

Sasuke is gone before she can look at him again. There is no desperate, romantic meeting of the eyes, no whispered last words or bitter smiles. She fails, even, to catch his scent, bloody or not, as he is deleted from her days.

He is simply gone.

Ino stands very still as the dust settles. The colour of her hair is grey in the ebbing sun from the window. She looks an aged woman, all of a sudden.

'Ino,' Father speaks, weariness weighty in his voice, 'I'm very grateful to you for spotting that Red and helping my daughter, but I'd like some time alone with her now.'

He doesn't need to say more. She leaves, quickly, unaware of the lives she has broken. Her footsteps are unfamiliar on the basement stairs.

The silence that fills the basement is gummy and hollow. Sakura gazes around with softening eyes, looking into the place where once a blue sky soared, and a small path wound through a bright park, and a family smiled, and a young, healthy man ran, ran hard, and nobody chased him.

With as little warning as a small escape of breath, Sakura's heart breaks. Her face tumbles into her hands.

There is silence. Then a timid, angry, wretched howl.

Then the sound of two people weeping through wet fingers and doing their best to hold each other.

* * *

In a house on the wealthier side of the village, two people share a soft load of bread together. They are preparing themselves – physically, mentally – to face the night and its responsibilities.

They do not want to let go of each other. Their conversation is running deep into a guilt that Natuto has harboured for a while now.

'It was his eyes, though. I've never seen him look at me like that. Don't get me wrong – Sasuke has never been one of those smiley happy people. And he's always been – not _arrogant, _I suppose, but proud, and sort of... undefeatable. And then when he looked at me, all I could see in his eyes, and in his face, was _shame_. He was ashamed I knocked him down so easily. And I think he was ashamed of who he is.'

Hinata shakes her head. 'He would forgive you.'

'I don't know – you didn't see how he looked at me...'

'It doesn't matter h-how he looked at you. Sasuke is very proud, but he is d-deeply grateful. He w-wouldn't begrudge you forever.'

Naruto is gazing at the beautiful, silky-smelling woman across from him. His eyes are hopeful.

'Do you think so?'

She smiles. She is an angel.

'O-of course. The longer you leave it, th-the worse it will feel.'

It doesn't take anything more. Naruto's heart is too good to resist. He grins at Hinata.

'Before it's too late.'

Her smile is velvet, like melted butter.

'It's never too late.'

They really have no clue what is happening on _Tengoku _Street.

* * *

I watch you, watching it all. I watch me, pouring their story out in its heart-wrenching irony.

I wonder what the world is coming to.

* * *

**Author's Note: **This is the end of Part 1 of this story. I need to sit and have a good old chinwag with my fabulous editor Janine and work on the next part, but it shouldn't be too long before you're hurled into the mess that is Part 2.

Hope you enjoyed – or didn't enjoy – this chapter. It broke my heart to write.

Let me know what you think. Massive thanks to Janine, and all reviewers, as always.

**Sherby**


	17. Diary

**RED**

**Chapter 16: Diary**

_18__th__ March 042_

_Today was a very hard day. A man was sent in with severe pain in his right leg and when I examined him I discovered he is suffering from the most dreadful gangrene. He will probably lose most of his leg. He is thirty-six years old and has two young children. When I told him it is likely he will lose the majority of the limb he began to cry and told me he had promised his children a game of hide-and-seek when he returned from duty. Thankfully Shizune came in and took over – I had started crying too, and I'm sure it just made him feel even worse. _

_I know I haven't written for a while, but my day today is quite indicative of most days in the Centre, so you've hardly missed out on anything. The concentrated bombing across the south of the village over the past month has caused an absolute heave in patients with severe injuries requiring emergency treatment. If I flick back only a few pages I read myself complaining that I had to treat a child with a fungal infection in their toes; I was so prudish. How can I have changed so much in such a small space of time? A fungal infection would be a dream to treat compared to the agony I have to deal with seemingly every day now. _

_The other girls in class are dropping out steadily now. I suspected some of them would when the work got more practical but I didn't expect the pace to be so dramatic. Ino left a fortnight ago to specialise in anaesthesia but Hinata is holding out very well. I'm surprised – she doesn't flinch at even the goriest sights. I'm actually quite proud of her. Her hard work in her spare time is also extremely commendable, but she has encouraged me not to get involved, as much as I'd like to. She believes it is too dangerous. As for my own progress, Dr Tsunade has reported positive feedback and has started allowing me to observe her in theatre. I'm extremely honoured and am making it my absolute priority to excel in my skills to prove my gratitude. _

_Mother is keeping well – she makes herself busy even when there is no business. While Father is away the government grants us a small monetary supplement to live on, so financially she doesn't need to worry, but I still think she finds it hard without him. There is no venom in the way she snaps at me when I traipse grass all over the floor. _

_Father writes regularly from Sand and his letters make my soul sing. He has made friends and he's doing well for himself, even though he is a little older than a lot of the other soldiers. I hope they look up to and respect him as much as I do. I am certain his natural grace will encourage the admiration of those he works with._

_I have begun to paste the letters he sends all around the basement (I'm looking at them as I write), and it almost feels like I'm a child again, and we're painting the alphabet onto the wall. I didn't realise the importance of those times when they were happening, and now, when I look back on them, I see how much my Father was doing for me. He was giving me a place to hide when I have to tell a mother that her child has not survived surgery, or a man that he must lose his leg. _

_I miss him very much. _

_Naruto has been keeping busy. I am informed of his plans through Hinata, who continues to blossom in his company. I expect great romance from those two! _

_I have heard nothing else._

_I will try and write more regularly. My Father worked so hard to give me the gift of writing, and I shouldn't let tiredness or despair prevent me from using it. _

_I'm going to go and rest for a while. I will be in on the amputation op tomorrow, and need my strength._

* * *

The paper was as dry as the land, and bone white in the sun.

_18__th__ March 042_

_Anko, and Sakura_

_I hope you are both doing well. Every letter I receive from you reminds me of home, and keeps my spirits lifted in this heat. I like to hear about your lives. They are so different to mine now. _

_Spring feels like the height of summer. Since I last wrote to you it has only gotten hotter. Even the scorpions run for the shade. The only thing that moves in the middle of the day is us. It's so hot that the air looks like it is wriggling upwards from the sand, trying to escape being burned. I have never experienced heat like it. _

_Body count last week was 207. They've told us to expect it to escalate even more this week. I'm getting more used to it, I think. You sort of get used to how their skin looks, but the heat makes them slippery. Still, I consider myself lucky I'm not on the front at the moment. Horror stories make their way back to us, even while we're on the move. Picking up bodies seems like a very easy task compared to what they're facing. _

_We're planning a poker night tonight. Yamato is organising. He said he doesn't like to play but he likes trying to work out people's poker faces. He's good company. We usually _

Kakashi paused. His pencil hovered close to the paper as he glanced up, squinting in the sunlight of the morning.

'Can I help you?'

A shadow fell across the page, casting it in grey as intrusive eyes ate up the scrawled words.

'I'm just having a look, Kakashi. Don't strain yourself.'

Ignoring the barb, Kakashi folded the letter he had been writing with an air of mute privacy. He slipped it into the jacket pocket of his hot, heavy uniform and clambered to his feet.

'Don't you have your own letters to write?'

Kakashi was generally the type of man to give anybody a chance. He liked to think he was open-minded; moreover, he liked to think that those who knew him well would agree. As a rule he always did his best not to pass judgement upon a person upon the basis of a first encounter.

However, he _disliked_ Hidan. And he'd _disliked_ Hidan from the moment he met him.

He wasn't sure if it was the continuously smug expression, or the nasty comments, or just the general attitude, but he found himself unable – and shamefully unwilling – to warm towards him in any way. Young enough to be spirited and cocky and old enough to stand his ground, Hidan had a habit of making enemies for himself. Drafted into east Sand Body Brigade as a punishment for gross misconduct on the front the week after Kakashi joined, Hidan had quickly established a reputation as a spiteful character. He spoke to those older than him with no respect and to those beneath him with no care, and was unnaturally fascinated with the bodies (whole or in pieces) they picked up on their sweeps.

'I don't need a crutch like you do, old man,' came the jeering reply. Hidan's shadow was hot and black in the morning. 'Don't need letters to distract me.'

Kakashi said nothing. He stared at Hidan with a weary sort of impatience before side-stepping him and moving towards the grey barracks to his right. It was easier to ignore Hidan's gibes than provoke him.

Yamato, owl-eyed and bleary in the glare, stood beside the van, waiting and fastening his crumpled flak jacket.

'Morning, Kakashi.'

Kakashi offered him an amicable nod. 'Where are we today?'

'Not sure. We haven't had the briefing yet.'

Another nod. Their conversation was typically brief for the early morning.

'Poker night tonight?'

'Depends on how the shift goes.'

'Fair enough.'

The air was hot. Words only made it hotter.

The two of them clambered into the van through the open door in the back. The heat grew more stifling, but the shade was welcome.

The fleeting privacy was blissful.

'Any news?'

Hushed utterances. A shake of Yamato's head. 'It's been a while since I've received any post. As far as I know they're still undiscovered.'

A pause.

'You?'

Kakashi cast his eyes to the plated metal flooring of the van.

'I've heard nothing.'

'I'm sorry.'

Kakashi sighed. The thin skeleton of the van did nothing to protect him from the fist of guilt that crushed his shoulders every hour of every day. The heat did nothing to relieve him of the painful, intimate failure that prowled like ravenous scavenger, feasting upon each of his memories, gorging on each unsaid word in the letters from home.

Yamato had a Red sheltered in his basement. Hidden. Safe. Secure.

Kakashi did not.

* * *

Back in Konoha a vulture circles in the rain. From above it looks controlled, as though by remote, religiously following the beaten tracks of barbed wire beneath it.

Within the wire, ants move. They work to build, and deconstruct, and build, and deconstruct.

All the while, within the wire, the ants die.

And the vulture waits.

* * *

On the outskirts of the ant-heap, a man with blood eyes and telltale hair watches the sky. He is skin and bone but has survived his first winter. There is a stack of hastily chopped lumber strapped to his back.

He knows the vulture well. He almost feels like they are close friends.

He doesn't fancy getting any closer.

* * *

Night engulfed day with vociferous gluttony. Spring hadn't quite managed to escape winter's clutch, so the light was short and the soil chilled and wet.

Naruto was digging.

'Can you hand me that pick, Hinata?'

She was faithful and devout. She was waiting for the day he smiled again. Patience was her virtue.

'Thanks.'

His words had been dry and hollow for twelve months. The crumbling soil was lodged in his throat and every sound he made was forced and empty.

Hinata knew what he was waiting for.

Since the day Sakura had fallen into his arms, weeping and apologising hysterically, Naruto's eyes had melted. Hinata remembered how he'd stroked Sakura's rosy hair, and held her close, and told her it wasn't her fault. She remembered the whiteness of his face when he'd looked at the empty basement and the browning bloodstains on the floor.

She remembered kissing the bruises on his fists after he'd punched the wall. Again. Again. Again.

There'd been so much emotion in his eyes that day. They were basins, brimming, bursting with water. Hinata had tried not to notice his strangled, furious sobs that night as they lay together on a stiff, uncomforting bed.

'_He would forgive you.' _

'_It's never too late.'_

Her words burned them both. They were hot and feverish on Naruto's skin. They were laced and spiteful in her tears.

The next day, Naruto had awoken with eyes like pebbles. There was no wetness or misery within them. He'd sat at his desk and drawn up an elaborate plan to infiltrate 001 before the week was out.

It never came together.

The weeks bristled by in a grey, hoary gale and winter soon fell. Naruto spent days at a time brooding, murky and grim. Hinata always hammered on his door to be let in. She refused to let him sink into the sea of misery bubbling at his feet. Her hospital work (and her after hours work) continued steadfastly, and she was determined to improve.

Slowly, Naruto came through it. The winter snows, soft and sludgy, seemed to calm him, and from January 042 he started putting together more realistic plans for his involvement in FOX.

The pick axe felt familiar in his hands, and Hinata delighted in it. His eyes were still stone, but the touch of his fingers, rough and dirty, was, in her opinion, a very good sign.

Shikamaru was monitoring the entrance of the hole. He'd proved himself to be invaluable, amending strategies and infiltration plans with skill, plucking out flaws and errors like a bird pecking a worm from the ground. He was also an excellent scout and had the uncanny ability to talk himself out of most situations. 'What are you doing out here so late at night?' and 'Why have you got a shovel in your hands?' posed little threat to him.

One watching. One digging. One in between, providing, sweating, hoping. A bag of implicating flyers hung around her shoulders.

"_End the Tyranny!" _

"_Free the Innocent Reds!"_

"_Wake up from the spell of Orochimaru!"_

They were all slogans Hinata would be proud to die for.

* * *

The day trawled on for Kakashi. As the desert heat rose he wondered about the rainy gloom of the Leaf Village. The beads of sweat smattered across his skin did not console in the same way that fresh rainwater did.

They'd first visited a small village in the very far eastern regions of Sand in the morning. There were few bodies to collect. To Kakashi, those few were, in a way, worse than a multitude. With a big haul he could concentrate solely on the numbers and the rush to get them all collected and searched. With such a small number, the details on their faces were more real. The skin across their bellies was almost reflective.

The haul only took an hour, and the burials were swift in the hot, easy sand. The strip had taken a little longer because some of the bodies were very small, and it was hard to prise the stiff limbs from the cloth. There weren't a lot of valuables to load into the van – a couple of expensive-looking pieces of jewellery, or an ancient book, perhaps – and they'd moved off from the tiny village barely three hours after they'd arrived.

Yamato bleakly proclaimed it a record.

As the sun hit its peak in the glory of midday, they rolled into their next destination. Their squad leader hadn't said much about it, although he'd warned them it was a city, so they were expecting a longer shift.

They were not expecting a thick, spluttering globule of smoke, or the dying bleat of a worn down air-raid siren.

Every neck in the party of fourteen soldiers was craned upwards as their van rolled to a stop near a fuming church. All eyes were on the smoke, fat and reeking of fire, as they stepped out onto the sand.

Kakashi instantly felt a difference in the air. It wasn't the heat of the sun boiling his skin. It was the heat of a huge attack, heavy and brimming beneath the weight of the clouds.

His orders burned by him in a molten haze, and he soon found himself back in the habit, pulling smoke infected bodies to the side of the road, feeling the hot metal of the shovel on his back, rooting through pockets and stealing anything that glimmered. He felt invasive and illegal, a criminal with silver cutlery in his pockets. An uninvited guest at a funeral. A _Fang_ guard stealing a Red from a basement.

The sheer size of this job astounded Kakashi. He worked tirelessly, always one to do well, digging at a furious pace and letting the sweat weep down his knuckles. The bodies were blackened and unrecognisable as anything but strangers. He buried them face down, avoiding the whites of their eyes as he might have avoided his wife's after coming home late from the local brewer's. He did not take the time to pour the soil with reverence, but was as gentle as he could be. He could not afford to hold a private funeral for each body.

The buildings of the city were ruined. Their corpses crumbled and glowed dangerous amber as they tottered in the smoky remains of a once bustling nest of humans. And as the air raid siren picked up and Kakashi turned his face to the motoring hum of the Allied forces, he ignored the charred fingers of the child in his arms and desperately tried to think back to his own.

Sakura.

He prayed she was safe. He shut his eyes and prayed, hard. He did not know to whom he prayed, but he begged them to listen, and grant that Sakura would never see _any_ of this.

'Kakashi!'

With smoky sweat stinging his eyes, Kakashi glanced back to where Hidan was calling him from. He was waving a clawed hand, severed from its owner at the wrist. It was black and bitty.

'Do you need a hand with that one?'

Kakashi swallowed his prayers.

There was work to be done.

* * *

Wrap yourself in your scarf and hat. Quickly, now. I know it's hot, yes, I know. Sweltering, in this smoky heat. But we're travelling somewhere colder, and you will need all the warmth you can get.

* * *

The light is dropping from the sky over the chimneys of 002. They have ceased to smoke for the day and will rest overnight, ready to begin work early in the morning. As a faint hint of red blinks across the darkening skyline, the workers plod back to their barracks and sink into themselves. The barracks are cold and wet, but they provide a short rest for aching feet and temporary shelter.

Food is handed out at eight o'clock, and there is a little time before then. Two heads are gathered on one mattress, and while they wait for the third, they discuss things quietly.

'Are you definitely sure the guard won't turn?'

'She gave me her word. I hate to think how she secured his trust, but she did. We should meet no opposition.'

'And if we do?'

A pause.

'Then at least we tried.'

The door to the barracks – a creaking, louse-infested slab of timber – scrapes open and the Wood Collection detail drags itself in. They're usually back the latest because they have the furthest to travel. A sharp wind pushes its way in before any of the workers can.

The conspiring heads look up and identify the one they search for. He is at the back of the group, tallest by an inch or so, even with his crunched posture. They all slink in without a word, under the watchful eye of the Commander at the door.

'Rations will be halved tonight due to the behaviour of this lot today,' barks the stiff, whipping voice. 'Meals will be served at eight, as normal.'

There are no groans. The presence of the Commander continues to enforce a strict silence. Even the coughing – which is persistent at its quietest – ceases in his company.

The door shuts, and immediately the silence is broken.

'What did you do?' 'Half rations – you idiots!' 'You can give us yours, then!'

The conspiring heads move their bodies to allow a little more room on the bed. With no more than a quiet sigh, Uchiha Sasuke drops onto the hard mattress and lies still, catching his breath.

The two beside him wait patiently for him to recover. They all know what it is like.

'Are you ready?' one of them asks eventually. 'Are you up for this?'

The nod in return is all they need.

'What happened today?' says the other, piercing eyes keenly taking in the raw flush on Sasuke's pale cheeks. 'Why are we on half rations?'

The answer – as always – is quiet and jaded.

'We had three runners.'

This perks the other two up. 'Did any of them escape?'

'Of course not.' Sasuke pushes himself up on his elbows. 'All of them brought back and shot. Pissed the Commander right off.'

There is a short quietness on the bed. The rest of the barrack is still in uproar.

'We move at eleven,' one says under the cover of the noise. 'Through the route we discussed.'

'She'll definitely be there?'

Sasuke's question seems to offend the crafter of the plan.

'Do you doubt me?'

'No.' His answer is short and shrewd. 'But I've never met _the woman_. I have every reason to doubt her.'

'Trust me,' the speaker answers firmly, running a hand through his ginger hair. 'Konan has never let me down. She will definitely be there.'

* * *

The wind picked up. The rain fell ferociously. Thunder rumbled in the black distance.

Sasuke stood guard, aching back pressed into the wall. Earlier his clothes – a thin pale shirt, trousers tied at the waist with an old piece of rope and shoes of differing sizes – were so dirty that he was sure they wouldn't stand out in the darkness, but the rainwater was rinsing through the cheap material and making him feel conspicuous. Nagato had managed to source two cloaks, but he kept one for himself and gave the other to Yahiko. Sasuke supposed it was sensible, really. After all, he was principally the look-out. While being away from the barracks at night was punishable by lashing, he doubted his crime would be truly comparable with that of the others.

Fraternising.

He didn't need to worry so much about his hair anymore; it had all been shaved off when he'd first entered the camp. It had grown back quite a bit and he was certain he was marked for the shears again soon but there was nothing he could do about it. He grew frustrated when the lice of the barracks made their home in his head but everybody else had lice too, so he didn't really see himself as any worse off for having a head full of spiky black hair. It wasn't long enough to hang right into his eyes in the thick rain but he still held his pale hands to his brow to stop the water seeping in. Looking, he was sure, like a typical watchman, Sasuke glared into the night with squinting eyes and watched the shadows for any signs of movement.

Around the corner behind him, Yahiko and Nagato were meeting with a friend from the women's block. There was an entirely separate camp for women but that was many miles away, and from what Sasuke heard the conditions were just as deplorable as they were in the male sub-section of 002 he was based in. However, some women lived, as part of a small work detail, in barracks near the depository rail station, and it was their job to sort through newcomers' belongings, acquiring the things of value and handing them over to the _Fang_ Commanders. Sasuke had been amazed at what was considered as valuable by the _Fang_ regime: shoe laces, elbow patches, and even human hair. Apparently Yahiko and Nagato were connected to a woman who worked there; an old friend, who'd arrived at the camp the same time as they had, five weeks before Sasuke's arrival.

Sasuke had become allied with Yahiko and Nagato simply through chance – on the night he'd been shown to the barracks, fresh from the most terrifying shower of his life and shivering in his new garments, a previous inmate had died from an infected head wound. He'd slipped quietly into bed in the man's place, which was in the same bed as Yahiko, Nagato and two others. Despite his exhaustion on that first night he'd lain awake until dawn, back aching with cold tremors against the hard, wooden cot he'd been allocated. The others hadn't spoken a word to him until roughly five months later, when they offered him a spare piece of bread they'd acquired and explained that they were looking for, in Yahiko's terms, a 'business partner'. Sasuke's confusion had been quickly alleviated when Nagato had quietly explained that they were hoping to start a small (and importantly, illegal) trade business. They had a partner in Collection, they said, and could smuggle goods from her into the camp sub-sections.

Sasuke was dubious. He promised he'd think about it, and in the meantime he was placed on a work detail briefly with Yahiko.

It was like he was with Naruto again.

He first realised it when Yahiko started annoying him. He talked. Consistently. About anything and everything, with an unyielding vigour that drove Sasuke to despair as he limped back to barracks each night, devoid of energy. Yahiko's unbridled enthusiasm for life confused him and made him feel angry and strangely bitter. Why was Yahiko so happy but he himself was so miserable?

He endeavoured to understand Yahiko's character a little better and learned he had been orphaned at an early age. He was a few years older than Sasuke (he hardly seemed it, his spirit was so youthful!) and was only classed as Red by a distant relation. Still, as Yahiko had admitted himself, any connection with Reds was enough to warrant anybody a place in the camps – he didn't see, he supposed, why he should be exempt.

He'd been brought in with his step-brother Nagato, a quiet, conscientious fellow who Sasuke found much more agreeable. Nagato, however, was slighter and a little weaker than Yahiko and was usually placed on different work details than he and Sasuke. Sasuke shared the odd, clipped conversation with Nagato just before bed occasionally but couldn't really say he knew him. Yet it was through events surrounding Nagato that the personality gap between Sasuke and Yahiko was bridged, and those events had solidified Sasuke's response to their business offer.

* * *

The snow is thick and heavy. They do not have extra boots. Their feet are blue in the sour conditions.

In a rare turn of events, Sasuke and Nagato have been placed on a work-detail together, and Yahiko has been sent elsewhere. They are pulling up the copper from the old railway line into 002, which has recently been re-laid across a more central part of the camp. The old copper is a valuable commodity, Nagato explains to Sasuke.

'I'm a blacksmith,' Sasuke replies dryly, gripping his hands around a rickety shovel. 'I'm aware of the economical value of copper.'

'Oh no, I don't think they'll sell it.' Nagato continues, unperturbed. 'I heard they use it to reinforce the furnaces. I suppose metal wears out if it's being heated so constantly.'

Sasuke glances quickly at the tall crematorium chimney in the distance before ramming the shovel into the snow.

The afternoon wears on, and despite the freezing snow the sweat soon begins to pour from their brows. Sasuke works thoroughly, used to the toil, fingers strangely comfortable wrapped around the shovel. Nagato fares less well. He is smaller and weaker, and the winter has been hard on him.

The Commander is here. He is looking at Nagato's small pile of copper. It looks pitiful next to the amount Sasuke has been able to plunder from beneath the snows.

'Why is this pile so small?'

Nagato is shrinking before the looming guard. His pale, gingery hair hangs into his face weakly.

'I...' He is so short of breath that words escape him. The Commander fingers the pistol at his side.

'He was helping me.'

Sasuke hates himself. This makes absolutely _no _sense! Why is he _talking_? It is as though his mouth is moving on its own.

'I... uh...'

The Commander is staring into his eyes. Sasuke thinks wildly of his brother, and how he sacrificed himself the night when the glass was broken.

'My shovel isn't very strong, so we were working on the same area together. We managed to get this big pile out.'

The Commander isn't interested in the pile of copper. He doesn't even look at it.

'Was I speaking to you?'

Sasuke assumes the meek and terrified position. He honestly doesn't have to try very hard.

'No, sir.'

'Are you important enough to speak to me when I am addressing another?'

'No, sir, not at all – it's just-'

Sasuke finds himself spun around by two rough hands before he can continue. He is forcibly bent double, hands gripping his knees (when did they get so bony?).

'You will not address me without being spoken to first.'

The Commander's voice is curt and lacks in all tenderness. Sasuke can feel Nagato's eyes upon him as he receives five sharp lashes with a short whip. The last tears the fabric of his flimsy shirt and pulls a ribbon of quick-freezing blood into the snow. He bears it as well as he can, squeezing his fingers into the sides of his knees and staring at the ground as if it will allow him to be swallowed up.

He thinks of Naruto. He thinks of Itachi. He thinks of Kakashi and Anko, and even of Hinata.

But he will not think of _her_.

_Not in here._

When the whipping is done, the Commander gives them all the order to march back to barracks. Save for a quick, cruel elbow in Nagato's direction, he does not bother with him any longer. They are able to slink back to the barracks quietly.

Nagato walks beside Sasuke all the way. When they reach the barracks, he lets Sasuke in first and helps him strip the torn shirt from his back. Upon Yahiko's return, the story is told again, and Yahiko swears revenge against the vile Commander. Sasuke is pale and weary by the time rations are served, so both Yahiko and Nagato fetch their rations and donate all to him. He is asleep when they get back, and they try to keep his sleeping area free of lice as well as they can.

The next day Sasuke agrees to be part of the business plan. He isn't really sure what motivates him to do it apart from the fact that he needs a new shirt. Winter is bitter and there is no way he will survive without one.

Nagato reveals a spare shirt underneath his own. Sasuke takes it gladly. But he remains part of the plan.

* * *

It was after these events that the personalities of Yahiko and Nagato began to reveal themselves more truly to Sasuke. Yahiko was like Naruto in more ways than one. He possessed the same single-mindedness and determination, but was headstrong and foolish. Sasuke swore he could even see some sort of vague familial resemblance. Nagato was very different; quiet, steady, and frighteningly loyal. Sasuke could see that the two had been very close for years, and after a while he started to feel lucky – even a little honoured – to have come to know them. It was with an odd sense of wary, heated anticipation that he began to look forward to meeting the third member of their intimate circle – Konan, the woman they were to meet tonight.

Suddenly Nagato was at his side. 'Everything alright, Sasuke?'

He nodded, the slight movement of his head enough to plunge a fresh wave of settled rainwater towards his eyes.

'Look at this.'

Nagato's arms were wrapped around a thick bundle. 'Bread, shirts, and hats. We'll be able to trade what we don't use when we need to.'

Sasuke nodded again. He wondered how easily they will be able to store their bounty.

'You can meet her, if you like.'

Sasuke's eyes were much redder than Nagato's and they glowed in the night. He didn't bother speaking – every word was a risk. He simply left Nagato to stand watch and slipped around the corner.

It was about ten metres from the corner to the barbed fence where Yahiko's murky silhouette stood still. Through the mist of the heavy rain Sasuke could just about make out a pale face on the other side. He approached quickly, the grainy gravel beneath his feet creating little noise in the dampness.

Yahiko turned as he arrived.

'Aah. First things first.'

A thick winter coat, lined with fur and blessed with a hood, was slung over his shoulders. Sasuke allowed himself a tiny moment to enjoy the heavy warmth it immediately brought to his body before focusing on the woman through the wire.

She was hard to make out, but her eyes were very red. Long hair dripped into them in the dank of the weather. She was wrapped up thickly but Sasuke could see that she was slight of frame. There was a slight hollow to her cheeks, making her look malnourished.

'My name is Konan.' She had a smooth voice; surprisingly deep and rich. 'Look after that coat – you won't see another like it in here.'

'We will meet once every week,' Yahiko offered with a small, triumphant smile. 'The guard has agreed to grant us what he deems "clemency" and let us see Konan at this point every Thursday night. She is going to bring us supplies and in return we will bring her some of what we trade for her to trade in the women's sub-section. Seems fair.'

Sasuke nodded, never taking his eyes off the woman's face. She was unique in a hard, almost manly way.

'Do those terms appeal to you, Uchiha Sasuke?'

She spoke boldly, unafraid of his gaze. Sasuke stared through the rain.

'The terms don't interest me much. There's only one thing I'm really interested in finding out, and I think you're probably my best bet at knowing.'

Konan frowned, and Yahiko beat in. 'Sasuke, what do you—'

'For you to be so direct with me means it's important to you,' Konan spoke over Yahiko without raising her voice. Her tone reeked of a strange, mysterious authority. 'What do you want to know?'

Sasuke's eyes were locked.

'You work in Collection. Do you have anything to do with inmate registration?'

She didn't falter. 'Yes. I help in the assignment of numbers as each worker comes in. The number you wear on your wrist band was probably allocated to you by me.'

'Good. I need you to check if someone is within the camp.'

'I'll make no promises, but I'll try. What's the name?'

Sasuke smiled wryly. His voice cut the water and the wire.

'Uchiha Itachi.'


	18. 18 Changes

**Red Chapter 17**

**Changes**

* * *

It is all moving so fast now. Eight months have passed in the blink of an eye.

You didn't feel it. Did you?

* * *

_7__th__ September 042_

_The days are rushing by me in a strange blur. Autumn and its chills have settled in, and they are making me very pensive. There seem to be a lot of memories hidden in the leaves stacking up along the side of the pavement. _

_Work is tremendously busy. I have been granted qualified nursing status by Doctor Tsunade, which Mother and Father are thrilled about. But the increased responsibility is starting to take a toll on me. I've become short and snappy with my friends. I'm exhausted when I get home. Mother says there is no living with me. She is probably right. _

_I have been quite good, I think, at keeping certain things secret. Father made me promise to keep one thing a secret all those years ago, at the book burning. I can still remember the urgency in his eyes. He left a deep impression upon me then and I think for that reason I have been able to keep our family's secret for so long. It – he – has been wrapped up tight inside me, like a precious baby in a blanket. But today was the first time I ever came close to letting it out. I'm so ashamed of myself. Such a trivial, pathetic mistake. _

_I have been working in Front Line Emergency for three weeks now. I offer treatment to patients immediately as they enter the hospital. The bombing has relaxed across the village over the past few months, and instead we have seen an influx of patients from the war front. They are carted in to us in groups of perhaps forty or fifty at a time. Some have come from as far as Cloud Country; due to poor supply distribution these poor soldiers are shipped all the way back here, over hundreds of miles, just to receive basic treatment. The situation on the front lines, from what I have gathered, is bleak. The turbine of war seems to be slowing and failing. _

_Just before lunch-break today a new shipment of soldiers was brought in. As normal, we split the patients across the two rows of beds on either wall of the Emergency Room. I took the left side and Hinata, the only other qualified nurse on duty, took the right. As it turned out the patients on the right hand side of the room were fairly easy to deal with – I was mostly required to administer pain relief and bathe the odd infected wound in the absence of the doctor, who would be performing his rounds over the next few hours. Hinata, it seemed, was having some trouble, so I moved to help her. _

_She was trying to strap a tibia fracture on a man that I couldn't really see clearly, and he was causing a terrible fuss. He must have been in a lot of pain, even with Hinata's gentle hands. I moved over to help her, but as I reached the bed my whole body froze at the sight of who lay there half covered by the sheets. _

_I honestly couldn't move. There __**he**__ was, lying in the bed, looking straight at me with the most horrific look of agony on his features. Eighteen months had passed since I last saw him. He was paler, thinner, and weaker than I have ever seen him. _

_I could feel Hinata looking at me in complete confusion. I suppose I thought she simply hadn't recognised him the way I had. And a million emotions – guilt, worry, depression, anger, loneliness – bubbled over in my throat and drowned any sense of logic left inside me. _

_I was saying his name. Quietly. And then louder, and I was reaching for the pale skin, and there were tears on my face. Then Hinata was holding me and I was screaming hard at her to let me go – he needed me, and I had so much to apologise for. And she was repeating something to me in that firm, tiny voice of hers. 'It's not him. It's not him, Sakura. It's not him.'_

_And eventually, when I turned around, and I tried to focus through bleary eyes, I could see she was right. The man in the bed was not who I thought. He had similar hair, I suppose, and pale skin, but so did so many soldiers returning from the front. _

_I felt – and still feel - ridiculous. I have been so careful never to mention his name for the past year and a half and then the moment somebody similar looking is brought into the hospital I crack like a beaten down failure. I am so disappointed in myself. Luckily, Hinata is a confidant. She promised me she could handle Emergency for a while and I came home to recover myself. _

_My eyes are still raw from crying. I don't really know what upsets me more – the fact that I let his name spill out after guarding it so jealously and carefully... or the fact that I fell to pieces the moment I thought I saw him. _

_I need to be more realistic. Another slip up like that could cost Mother her safety, and goodness knows what they'd do to Father. _

_I must face what the rest us who knew him have long faced by now. _

_He is probably dead. _

* * *

September used to bring rain. Now it brings snow, wet and miserable; a soiled gift.

Sasuke stares up into it, and lets the flakes gather like bodies on his skin. He bets the snow has never felt anything so cold as his cheeks.

Yahiko is three rows behind him to the right, and Nagato stands two prisoners away to his left. They are into their second hour in the drizzling sleet – the rising of the autumn dawn is their watch – and Sasuke has forgotten what his feet feel like. His fists shiver in clutched balls and his ribs ache from trembling. His coat is hidden beneath his bed, safe from the eyes of thieves.

'Right,' the _Fang_ leader on duty announces, wrapped in his thick furs and scarves. 'Off you go.'

They file back for breakfast. A small bowl of oats. It has been an easy morning.

Nobody has died.

* * *

Naruto fidgeted yet again in his hard-backed seat and tried to rearrange himself into a more comfortable position. The satchel at his feet itched as he shuffled his shoes. He sipped his coffee quietly and puzzled briefly over a time when he felt he could get by without it.

The cafe was quiet – it always was. Naruto suspected the owner was secretly aware of their plans, and while he knew he should be worried by this, logically he supposed that if the management had a problem with their illegal meetings and solicitations they would probably have turned the whole lot of them in by now. The small FOX fortnightly meetings rolled by in hushed tones, disturbed by nothing but the clanking of glasses in the nearby kitchen sink.

It comforted Naruto to know there was some support, silent was it was.

Hinata had explained that she'd be late (Hanabi had some homework she needed help with) but she was bringing a contact who she believed could be of some use to their group. Naruto was wary but he trusted her judgement. Over the past eighteen months or so she had become more than a friend; more than a warm lover in the night or a strong right arm. Dark and earthy as she was, she'd been a sort of light for him, guiding him and glaring into his deep, guilty darkness in a steadfast manner he never knew existed. Hinata had become a source of energy to him, as real as food or oxygen. Her opinion was one he valued.

While he stared into his coffee and rolled his nostrils over its warm scent, the door to the cafe chimed and Naruto was greeted by the sight of Shikamaru. Sleet had made his features shiny and damp, and the fur hood he wore around his face hadn't protected him much.

Relaxed as always, Shikamaru allowed the door to swing shut behind him before ordering a mug of tea. The lady behind the counter, small and round, nodded and promised to bring it over. Shikamaru slunk into his seat and slipped his coat off. It dripped onto the pale tiled floor.

Naruto did not chide Shikamaru's lateness. They were close enough to allow these matters to slide to incoherency in the face of their greater challenges. Instead Naruto brought out a folder, raggedy and bursting with documents, and placed it on the table.

'I've updated the first draft.'

The papers slid across the table into Shikamaru's eagle gaze. His features had narrowed slightly in eighteen months; he was long legged and slender with an almost hollowed out face and a long nose that enhanced the gravity of his dark eyes. He still kept his hair tied in a sharp ponytail but it had grown wilder with age and unruly, untameable pieces strayed and fell into his face.

They dangled in the way of his eyes as they darted from left to right over Naruto's rough scrawl. Naruto watched his face intently, waiting for judgement. Shikamaru's tactical skills were second to none and he ran every single plan by him before taking action.

Shikamaru's eyes widened. 'The location has changed.'

Naruto nodded. 'I decided we needed a little more ambition.'

At that moment the cafe door chimed again and Hinata slid in, followed by a stranger in a thick brown coat. Hinata shook out her speckled umbrella before letting the door close.

'I'm sorry we're late.'

Naruto offered her a small smile. 'Don't worry about it. Shikamaru was just scanning my rough draft.'

Hinata approached the table just as Shikamaru's tea arrived. 'M-may I order a pot of tea?'

A kind nod from the waitress confirmed the order, and Hinata moved to sit down.

'Naruto, Shikamaru, this is my cousin, Neji.'

They glanced at the newcomer without hostility. His resemblance to Hinata was remarkable. His hair was long but tucked into the high collar of his coat, and his features were soft.

'May I see?'

Shikamaru shifted his chair around and scraped over another from a nearby unoccupied table. 'Of course. We couldn't have done this without your help.'

Neji sat with a grace Naruto was unaccustomed to. His pale eyes scrutinised the papers swiftly for a quiet few minutes.

Finally: 'When will you act?'

Naruto answered blankly. 'Tomorrow night.'

'No. He has guests tomorrow night. A social gathering. You need the house as empty as possible to minimise your chances of being seen.'

'Actually,' interjected Shikamaru, 'we want it busy. The more people there are making a noise, the less likely our guest is of hearing us. Any slip ups we make should hopefully be muffled by the sounds of his friends.'

Neji silence spoke of his conversion to Shikamaru's logic.

'I'll be outside, o-on watch,' Hinata said quietly. 'The pamphlets have been finalised, p-printed and stored in a safe place until... until tomorrow. I will bring them with me.'

More nods. The details were knitting together. Naruto was the stitch-master.

'Meet at eight at the designated spot in the grounds,' he said, gathering the papers back in. 'Do not be late. Don't forget your sacks.'

Pausing, he glanced at Neji.

'We really couldn't do this without your help. Thank you.'

Their newest member considered their thanks. 'Where will the funds go?'

'Food, clothing, clean water in clean bottles,' came the lightning answer. 'Shoes with laces that actually fit. Hats to keep the rain out of their hair. Medicine so they can treat their injured. Matches so they can dispose of their dead.'

Neji picked up a saucer and sipped his tea while Naruto spoke. His last gulp was audible.

'Then I'm more than happy to have been able to help.'

The papers were shoved into Naruto's satchel once more. It was sealed with a clicking clasp.

'This can't have been easy for you,' Shikamaru offered as he finished his tea. He placed his saucer down with a clink. Neji, who appeared to be done, stood from his chair and returned it to the nearby table.

'No. But these aren't easy times. We all need to pull our weight.'

Naruto felt his trust wrapping around this man. He wished he could truly express his gratitude. Silently, he swore to one day reward this man for his information and assistance.

Without him, they would never be meeting in the grounds of one of the wealthiest officials in the Leaf Village. They would never have a detailed plan of every room in his house, or details of his routine and movements. They would never have the chance to access his abundant, obscene wealth and pillage it to sell on the black market to Naruto's hard-earned contacts for bread and survival.

They would never be able to access the house of Hyuga Hiashi, father to Hyuga Neji and uncle to Hyuga Hinata.

They would never be able to pull it off.

* * *

The medical aid tent smells rusty and hot. Kakashi's head throbs with tenacity as the warm air gets up his nose. His bed sheets are damp and lucid and he takes a moment to fidget gingerly.

A nurse enters. She is round and cheerful.

'How are you feeling, Kakashi?'

He attempts a smile. It fails. 'It could be worse.'

He is right. Of course he is right.

He could be dead.

* * *

'Ha, two pairs and a high. Just _try _and beat that, you old crow!'

Kakashi leaned back into his small metal chair, sucking on a small cigarette (he didn't remember when he started; sometime between the cold of a basement and the heat of a desert) and letting the smoke pollute the bunker. Five cards rested in his left hand. The right drummed the cheap metal table.

Hidan sat opposite, decent hand spread-eagled before him. The twin eights eyed Kakashi daringly, threats in their whites as they waited, confident in their cavalry pair of fours and the heroic king of spades. Kakashi toothed his cigarette, angling it with his tongue as he dragged deep.

His fingers twitched. He lay down his hand.

'Straight. Sorry, Hidan.'

There it was; stunningly consecutive and humbly victorious. Hidan growled at the simple black cards.

'I don't believe it. That's the third time. You must be cheating!'

Yamato, unspoken referee of all poker games, chuckled.

'Believe it. Three in a row – that means you're out!'

There was a pleased roar of applause from the other contestants in the room. Yamato had set up a poker tournament which had been running for a number of weeks. Each Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday the boys met for smokes and cards in their small bunker (for the minor cost of two cigarettes each), and the event had attracted quite a crowd. Kakashi hadn't really planned on getting involved but at Yamato's insistence he volunteered and his unreadable game face had served him eerily well. Having beaten Hidan he became the top challenger, and Hidan would have to work his way up from the bottom of the ranks again.

And he didn't like it.

Scowling, Hidan smashed his hand across the table, spilling the cards. They pattered to the floor as the atmosphere cracked.

'You bastards. You're all crooks!'

Kakashi shrugged, unperturbed. 'Sorry. You lose, fair and square. There's no way I could have cheated – Yamato has been watching us the whole time.'

The sourness affected the mood of the room. Those watching the game, previously excited by a strong hand and private bets between themselves, slipped into quiet as Kakashi spoke.

'You could be in it together!' came Hidan's snarling reply. 'I've seen you two; I've heard you whispering in the van together! Talk of basements and secrets –'

'What we speak about in private is no concern of yours, Hidan.' Yamato's smooth interruption quietened Kakashi's suddenly hammering heart. 'Our private conversations don't concern you. However I can assure you they're hardly ever about something as trivial as poker.'

Hidan's hands, tanned dirty with the hot sun, slammed the metal table. 'I don't care what you say, you fuckers. I'm not gonna let two washed-up first-war _dead-lasts_ tell me what to do!'

* * *

And he didn't.

* * *

Body Brigade left early the next morning, before the sun could get too strong. A small town just under ten miles away had been demolished during the night and a large clean up was required.

Kakashi sat in his usual spot in the front of the van, still blinking the sleep out of his eyes and feeling the creases fall from his face. Yamato clambered on and offered him a quiet greeting. A few more soldiers, kitted and sharply dressed, filed in and took their seats. The early morning start (and the immediacy of their orders) brought quiet to the van.

Hidan appeared.

'Oy. Kakashi.'

Inwardly Kakashi cringed. He felt it was too soon for another of Hidan's tantrums. The poker night had been left bitter and unfinished and a bad aftertaste still lingered across the entire Body Brigade.

He complied, eventually; reluctantly. 'Yes?'

'Get up. I want this seat.'

Kakashi frowned. 'What?'

Hidan sighed dramatically, as though harassed perpetually. 'Are you going deaf in your old age? _Move_. Go and sit at the back. I want to ride at the front of the van.'

Kakashi could feel the apprehension spreading throughout the other soldiers as they watched the situation curling out before them. And he knew it would be so easy to put Hidan down with a simple barb from his tongue or a quick, patronising chide.

But he also knew it would lead to more trouble.

'_Honestly? It's too early.'_

'Alright, Hidan,' he answered blithely, painting a smile on his face (after painting those walls so many times with an inquisitive daughter, Kakashi doubted he'd ever forget how to paint) and creaking up out of his seat. 'I don't mind where I sit. You're welcome to ride at the front.'

With that, Kakashi ambled to the back of the van, sliding into a seat beside Yamato. He shook his head as Yamato cast him a perplexed, almost frustrated glance.

'I just can't be bothered with it.'

Moments later, the van was on route to its destination, cutting across the steaming desert like a knife through butter. The soldiers inside sat quietly, some watching through the dirty windows as the yellowing sand gradually evolved into stony, rocky gravel as they neared the desolated city.

They never reached it.

Only moments before the driver was going to pull up and issue the team their tasks, the right front wheel of the van hit a sharp rock and punctured. The frame stuttered at the unexpected impact and each soldier gripped his seat in blind anticipation.

The van flipped.

It spun only once through the stifling dry air before crumpling hard into the rock, concertinaed into scrap metal. It ground to a smouldering heap in the rocky sand before hurling a desperate smoke signal into the hot sky.

Kakashi opened his eye to a black, steaming ceiling. A mute, insistent pain drummed up one of his legs. Squinting down at himself through the grey noise, he saw a metal chair collapsed and crumpled over his shin. Yamato lay nearby, propped against the interior wall of the van. Kakashi watched as he coughed some dust out of his lungs.

'Everyone alright?'

A number of muttered affirmations filtered through the remains of the van. Yamato staggered to his feet.

'Those who can, carry the wounded outside. We can't stay in this van.'

Of course, he moved to Kakashi's side first. Kakashi was glad their friendship was worth more than poker games and basement secrets. Yamato glanced down at his trapped leg cautiously.

'This will probably hurt.'

In resignation, Kakashi looked away, not wanting to watch the moment when his crushed leg was freed. Just as Yamato made the first tug, Kakashi focused his eyes on the wreckage of the front of the van, where the crushed remains of a sought after chair lay lifeless across the previous unlucky inhabitant.

* * *

'It could be worse.'

The nurse is easily cheered by his dry optimism. She quickly checks his temperature and heart rate before leaving the tent, busy with other more needy, agonised patients. Kakashi settles back into his pillows.

A broken leg.

It could be worse.

He is going home.

* * *

_18__th__ December 042_

_I dreamed about him last night. _

_I dreamed he was chasing a shadow down a long, dank corridor. The walls of the corridor were lined with chomping, chapping jaws that snapped at his hands as he ran. _

_He ran so well – he was light footed and tall. And he sped down the corridor like lightning, reaching for the shadow as it stretched out ahead of him. _

_He could never touch it. It slipped through his fingers time and again. It looked like black sand as it trickled away. _

_But he would not stop running. _

* * *

November brings black dawns and thick snows. The days are dull and long; the nights are unloving and tender only to the dead.

Sasuke hugs his ribs and wonders when he got so thin. He doesn't remember being able to fit the tips of his fingers beneath his ribcage until now. He can prise them right in; he can feel the edges of his hard, skinny organs against his nails.

The snow is thick around his shins. He thinks of his coat and the layers of sumptuous warmth it would provide, but he has to keep it hidden. It would be confiscated if he wore it to these gatherings; sharp _Fang_ eyes would snatch it away greedily. The snow is burning his feet, and the air is burning the rest.

For the fifth time that morning he curses the sky, which continues to cry hard, bitter tears. He is jealous. He would _love_ to cry. He would _love_ to show anything on his face but unhappy submission. He keeps his eyes on the ground and his features blank.

Nagato stands immediately on his left. Yahiko two to the right.

They will see Konan again tonight. She will pass them her goods and they will exchange them with their loot from the week. Usually cigarettes or sweets, passed from hand to hand. Extra bread is a rare luxury. Sometimes Konan comes across an unusually exquisite item: shoe laces, a bitten-down glove, or reading glasses. She is a superb, subtle thief. The cold does not seem to bother her the way it does Sasuke, but then she is fed more regularly and has a warm bed to herself.

For those unlucky enough to not be considered useful by _Fang_, beds are hard and icy and tasks throughout the day are wasting and impossible. Sasuke has been on Wood Collect for months now.

He can see all too plainly the correlation between his protruding ribs and the devastating manual labour. So he has a plan.

He will probably be killed for it.

As a sliver of light pierces the edge of the sky, the chief _Fang_ on duty calls for all inmates to return to their bunkers before breakfast call, Sasuke slips from his row. Yahiko and Nagato are unaware of his plan; they hiss as loudly as they dare at what to them is madness.

What he knows is madness.

Sasuke threads through the lines of prisoners sludging, half frozen, back to their beds. He is artful and well balanced despite his numb feet. Eventually he breaks from the shuffling throng and picks out the face of the _Fang_ chief.

He is unnervingly calm as Sasuke approaches him.

'Why are you out of line?'

Despite his height, Sasuke feels small. He remembers a time with documents crumpled within his fist; a time when he had somewhere to run.

He finds his voice – cowering somewhere in his mouldy boots – and pulls it roughly out through his throat.

'I noticed, Sir, that your belt buckle is damaged.'

The guard's face slinks into predatory anger. 'Wha—'

'And your dagger – the hilt is rusty.'

Any fury the guard might have considered unleashing upon Sasuke is lost in bewilderment. Sasuke can read the thoughts across his well-fed face. _'Who is this prisoner? How DARE he speak to me like this?'_

He moves as quickly as he dares.

'I could fix them for you. I'm a blacksmith by trade.'

The guard stares at him. Sasuke wonders how red his eyes look with the snow behind them.

'The metalworks in camp centre. I could work there for you. Anything you need doing, I can do it.'

The guard slaps him across the face. It is hard, and Sasuke bears it as well as he can, not quite falling over.

'What makes you think you have the right to even _speak_ to me?'

His nose is bleeding. Freely. He can feel it smearing across his teeth. His voice fights through it.

'Myself and a small team... I have the right people in mind...' His blood tastes like a freshly beaten sword. 'Anything you wanted... weapon parts, utensils... all we'd need is a bit of scrap meta-'

Another punch; harder and faster and bloodier. It knocks Sasuke clean over, and his knobbly fists bury themselves in the reddening snow.

He knows better than to talk back again. He waits, head down, blanketing his gaze in the white ground and wondering if there is a gun pointed at his head.

The sounds of the rest of the world (coughing, grunting, heavy footsteps, muffled yelling) disappear into a haze. Each second that passes brings more and more certainty that a trigger is being squeezed inches from his face. He wonders if anybody will notice him die.

His blood is dripping from the edge of his nose into the snow. The red hits the white in a concentrated teardrop and then slowly filters out, like spider legs unfurling into the night. His thoughts begin to filter too, stumbling and spreading over recent memories: the last look he saw on his brother's face, the soft hands of an angel in the darkness bringing bread and ham, a pair of blue, undeniable eyes, and the scent of pink strands of hair in his fingers...

'Tomorrow.'

Sasuke blinks. The blood on his lips is cold and terse.

'I have a small room at the back of my office. It was originally shared by another guard but he has since left the organisation. I will allow you to set up a small work area in there. You may bring two others, as requested.'

He blinks again. Wonders if he is actually lying face down in the snow with his brains slipping out of the back of his head. The world doesn't disappear.

'Come after tomorrow's role call.'

And with that, the _Fang_ is gone, and Sasuke is looking back up at the world around him with the most unfamiliar sensation in his stomach.

Something similar to success.

* * *

Roughly twenty-four hours later Sasuke found himself standing in a small, dusty room that smelled like warmth and felt almost safe. Behind him Yahiko and Nagato quietly awaited the fruits of Sasuke's bloody nose and bloody lip.

The _Fang_ guard had been busy. He'd had the room set up with two forging corners, a setting table, and a number of tools that Sasuke _supposed _would do the job. There was a fairly sizeable stack of wrought iron in one of the forging corners and a heap of firewood ready to be burned.

Sasuke was stunned. He'd half expected to arrive to a bullet in the gut, and had been wary of bringing Yahiko and Nagato with him. Then, he supposed, this was probably their only chance to spend their time somewhere warm, not blistering their fingers on the frost-bitten wood of the nearby forests.

The guard entered the room through a door that Sasuke assumed led to his office. The brief smell of cooked meat and coal filtered through before snapping away at the swing of the door. Sasuke automatically straightened as much as his aching back would allow him and sensed Yahiko and Nagato do the same.

'Will this do?'

The guard's voice was abrupt. Sasuke was swift to answer.

'Yes. It's enough.'

He didn't quite dare to point out that the wood fire probably wouldn't be hot enough to work at the pace he'd like to; coal was too expensive a commodity. The guard nodded briefly.

'I expect you to gather your own wood, and make anything I require. Understand?'

Without waiting for their answer, he looked over Yahiko and Nagato with a critical eye. 'What's your experience?'

Before they could blanch under the pressure Sasuke spoke. 'They're strikers. Both apprenticed under me in my family's smithy.'

The guard's gaze remained slightly suspicious. 'I expect good workmanship from you, then.'

Their silence seemed to satisfy him. He unbuckled his belt. Sasuke looked down awkwardly.

'Fix this. By the end of the day. With the other things I'd like you to fashion some pots. I'm sick of the plain ones they give us here. '

Sasuke took the belt. A small, iron buckle with a delicate design, horrifically bent out of shape with a thick crack down the centre. The deep brown leather was warm in his hand.

'No problem.'

With that, the guard left. A chill swept over the room as the door to the office was slammed and locked. After a short pause, in which the three occupants of the room released a breath they hadn't realised they'd been holding, Sasuke moved to the hearth, which he assumed was intended to be their forge. It was already filled with thick, severed slabs of wood. He knelt.

'We will need to gather wood every day to keep this forge hot,' he said as he began to kindle. 'We'll take it in turns. I'm sorry this won't keep us out of the cold forever, but it's a start.'

Nagato was gazing at a pile of rusty tools on a nearby surface. His neutral expression was betrayed by the tone of his voice.

'Sasuke... how are we going to pull this off? Neither of us has ever done this before, and from the sounds of it he is expecting a perfect finish on everything we make...'

The kindle sparked, and a small flame was born at the tip of Sasuke's fingers. It reflected very gently on the pale skin of his face.

'Follow everything I do,' he said, eyes on the flame, 'as if your life depends on it.'

* * *

When the work day drew to a close and the sun had long rolled away behind the grey sky, the _Fang_ guard unlocked the door leading into his makeshift smithy and swung it open.

He saw two Strikers flattening a fresh, shining slab of iron in one corner. Their fists, gripped tight around the hammer handles, glowed with sweat. The hearth danced with small, angry flames.

The blacksmith was hunched in the opposite corner, red eyes squinting at something small in his hand. He was using what looked like a piece of wire, pushing and pulling it between finger and thumb like a lever.

The guard cleared his throat.

The Strikers stopped hammering, and instantly dropped their tools. The blond one fumbled around for something on the floor.

'Three pots, Sir. They've been cooling for a few hours so should be ready to use by now.'

The pots were placed on one of the work tables and the guard immediately moved to examine them. They varied in depth and breadth but all three were finely crafted; neat and even with intricate, vine-like patterning on the handles.

'These are fine. And the belt buckle?'

He turned his attention once more to the blacksmith, whose eyes remained on the clasp in his hands. He exhaled rather heavily through his nose before setting the small wire tool down and rising from the stool he was hunched on.

'I just need to reattach it to the belt itself,' he said, still eyeing the buckle. 'But the design is fixed.'

He handed it out to the guard. 'Careful. It's still hot.'

The guard's cool hand wrapped around the small iron buckle. Its warmth was pleasant on his skin. He leaned his face in, blue, guiltless eyes grazing over the metal.

It was perfect.

'Good. You can come back tomorrow. You,' he nodded to Sasuke, 'can fix my dagger. The hilt is ruined. The others can make some more pots. I'm considering selling them to the other guards.'

He was met with three nods.

'I want you to keep up the good work. So you will be provided with a small lunch each day. I intend to make a lot of money out of you three.'

Again, nods. The guard watched disdainfully as their eyes, some red, some not, glowed in the dark light of the makeshift smithy.

'Come back at the same time tomorrow. You can go now.'

They left quickly, in silence. As the door to the back of the room closed, the guard turned the buckle over again in his hands, admiring the workmanship of it. Mind bloated with the money he would make selling designer daggers to the rest of the guards, he moved back into his own office, locking the smithy door tightly behind him.

* * *

Two weeks later and Sasuke can feel himself growing healthier. His hands are burned and blistered and his back aches from hunching over but already his ribs feel less painfully defined; already his knees feel less knobbly. The extra meal and the indoor work is mending him, and mending the others – he can see it in Yahiko's cheeks and Nagato's colour.

They are meeting Konan at the usual point, near the depository rail station. The rain tonight is light and cold like spiders on the skin. All three are wrapped in their winter coats and almost invisible in the darkness.

Konan appears. Sasuke doesn't need to look at Nagato to know that his pale face has lit up at her arrival. Such a striking woman is enough to make any man's heart beat harder but Nagato's affection for the woman runs deeper and truer than lust.

Yahiko steps forward. 'Evening. Four packets of cigarettes, two lighters, and, believe it or not, some cooked meat. Our employer was feeling particularly generous today an—'

'No, Yahiko.' Her velvet voice sidles through the crawling rain. 'The goods can wait tonight.'

Yahiko's teeth remain wrapped around the words she stuffed back in his mouth as Konan's gaze, sharp as a knife, fixes on Sasuke.

'It's Sasuke I need right now.'

She flips the hair out of her eyes and water glimmers into the wet air. Sasuke tries to ignore Nagato's uncertain, almost jealous exhalation.

Konan reaches into her coat. Her hands are dainty; perfect for a thief.

'Every time we meet you ask me the same question.'

Sasuke doesn't need to nod.

'And every time you ask, I can't give you an answer.'

The tips of his fingers, scorched and battered, are suddenly numb.

'Well.' She steps forward. Sasuke resists the urge to read the words she hasn't said yet; refuses to allow hope to escape its cage just yet.

'This time, I have an answer.'

Her hand, still moving inside the breast of her coat, reappears. The eyes of all three men are latched on it as the rain caresses the pale skin of her elegant, dirty nails.

She pulls a hat from inside her coat. A tatty looking trilby that looks as though it used to be black but has faded to a washy grey.

Sasuke inhales, but there is no air.

'I found this today in the Receptacle Centre. In the section for work-readies. I believe it may be of interest to you.'

She holds it out and Sasuke snatches it, unable to control his hands. A reflex as natural as bleeding turns it over and inside-out in his hands, and through the rain and the darkness, he can see what he needs to see.

Two names, stitched lovingly.

The first: _Uchiha Fugaku_

The second, in blessed blue thread:

_Itachi_

Sasuke doesn't know if he has ever clutched onto something so tightly as he clutches the hat, in the rain, in the darkness, in the work camp.

Konan is talking but the words mumble their way out without his permission.

'My brother.'

His head is light.

'My brother is alive, and he's in this camp.'

* * *

Authors note: Sorry about the wait, guys. I find it hard to fit writing time in at the moment. This story WILL be finished. Please just have patience. Reviews feed my desire to write more quickly.

Thanks, as always, to Janine for the edit. She's aces.


	19. Battle Scars

**RED**

**Chapter 18**

**Battlescars**

* * *

There is a town close to the southern border of Fire Country. The plants are generally brambly and do not flower; the heat of the southern summers is too heavy-handed for petals and buds. The insects in this region tend to crawl: locust, woodlouse and scorpion.

The folk in this town are famed for two things; the first is their ability to withstand the harshest of conditions. The weather fluctuations in this region are almost as infamous as those in Sand Country and the summer wastelands and winter white-outs have resulted in many a strange item of fashion emerging for the purposes of practicality.

The second notable attribute of these enduring people is their stories. Oral tradition remains uncommonly strong in these parts and inns and travellers' rests are usually entertained nightly by local 'traders of the tongue' (a local phrase) to help visitors to the region feel a little more at ease.

The vulture, black and sleek in the smouldering noon, has heard many a story from many a soul he has stalked in this quaint, gentle southern town. More often than not, by the time he arrives the stories are being used as a distraction; perhaps to help his client ignore the throbbing of some ulcerous tumour or the loss of a recent loved one. And they're entertaining, he must admit. He has no doubt about the skill of these people in crafting their _words_, so finely tuned and delicately chosen; executed with flair and ease of lip.

Unfortunate, the vulture muses. Unfortunate that these people should be reduced to nothing but a story themselves; a tribe only remembered through the words that survive the bombs, and the blasts, and the smoke.

Their elaborate, functional hats and scarves.

Their stories, tales hundreds of years old and aged with barely a wrinkle.

All gone in the face of war.

A product of a different type of story. A different set of words.

A different people.

The vulture does not feel guilt. He simply picks up the souls; moves them from one life to the next quietly. His role is older than the oldest of their stories, and craftier than all their metaphors.

But honestly? He'd never expected to be emptying this town out in silence. He'd always imagined that even at the end, its citizens would be talking, licking their words into shape like ice cream dripping in the day.

The silence, new and hollow, disturbs him. And he can tell you now, frank and straight, that disturbia is a feeling he only feels once in a lifetime.

In a hundred lifetimes. More.

He wonders, half-heartedly, when it will stop.

* * *

The heat didn't bother him. Yamato had grown up surrounded by waves of roasting air as the skyline dripped onto the parched land. Yellow grass rustled under his feet as he stared, lips pursed together and sticky.

The military wagon, parked a few feet behind, grumbled quietly, just at the edge of his senses. He didn't really care to notice. He was too busy taking it in.

His town. His home town. His neighbours. His grocers. His tailors. His doctors. His home.

His basement. His wife.

All gone.

* * *

_8__th__ October 042_

_My dear Anko, and sweet little Pig,_

_I can only apologise for not writing sooner. A great deal has happened to myself and my comrades since we last wrote. Sakura, I do hope your practical exam on transfusions went well; I know you worry, but your skill is untouchable. You are going to save thousands of lives across your career. I am so proud. Anko, I am sure you have been managing the house beautifully while I've been gone. I trust the wages being sent to you from _Fang_ headquarters are enough to sustain you both in my absence. _

_On that note, I have bad – and ultimately good – news to write of. Eight days ago, while travelling across the desert on an early morning mission, our truck overturned and crashed badly. The vehicle was ruined and a number of us were injured. I was fortunate enough not to be too badly hurt but my right leg was crushed and broken under one of the chairs and I've been granted leave of absence to recuperate. My leg is wrapped and splinted as well as our supplies will allow, and I'm due home on the fifteenth of October. There are a number of us returning home, including my good friend Yamato, who has suffered a bad case of broken ribs. I believe the Leaf village will be our last stop. _

_I have been moved away from main camp for treatment and so am not sure how soon I will be able to post this. I had hoped to write in advance of my arrival, but with the _Fang_ supply chain so carefully dogged by Allied guerrilla squads, post is something of an inconvenience. I will do my best to post this and have it reach you before I do, but I can't make any promises. _

_My two girls; I can't wait to see you again. _

_Yours, always_

_Kakashi_

_8__th__ October 042_

_Anko_

_Since I last wrote a series of fairly shocking events has taken place. Our journey to return any injured soldiers to their homes has been wracked with the sad news of towns and villages across Fire Country being bombed and destroyed at a devastating rate. Each region we pull into is nothing but smoke and ash. Whole houses, churches, hospitals – all reduced to sand. The army is working well to provide places in convalescence for these soldiers, but I must ask you a special favour. _

_Yesterday we pulled up to Yamato's home town in the south. It is a ruin. Every scrap of civilisation has been razed. All that remains of Yamato's town – a place, he tells me, that was full of sunshine and the business of suburban life – are a few blackened bushes and patches of shattered glass that refuses to melt in the constant heat. The Allies have been so thorough. _

_This man has served me well as a friend and a confidant, and I have asked him to stay with us in our little home. I know our house is small, but I am certain we can make room for another, and after all he has done for me, this is the least I can do to repay Yamato's service. He is also an experienced sympathiser with the issues we had in our basement last summer and he has become a person I feel happy to trust and rely upon in this matter. _

_Please make up the lounge into a temporary bedroom. Yamato has insisted that he does not want to be trouble, but I would feel ashamed of myself if I could not go to this amount of trouble (if not more!) to thank him. _

_I will explain more upon my arrival. There is (apparently) a post service running from the next village we visit. I will send this letter and hope it arrives in time. If not... I apologise for the surprise I caused you!_

_Yours, always_

_Kakashi_

Anko read two crumpled, dirty letters out loud to her daughter. Their arrival through the letter box brought them both a huge release; almost a month with no contact had left them fraught and jittery. Sakura listened carefully as her mother struggled over some of the words.

'So, you see, Pig,' she snapped as she finished. 'I told you to stop worrying! Your Father is too tough for his own good.'

'When did he say he was due back?' Sakura asked quietly, still allowing the fresh print of her Father's handwriting to sink into her skin.

'The fifteenth of October.'

She swallowed. 'Tomorrow.'

'Yes, Sakura,' Anko mused, folding the letters and placing them into the pocket of her apron. 'Tomorrow.'

* * *

Kakashi arrived home on the following day, at around six o' clock in the evening. Nearly two weeks of general recuperation had allowed him to develop an independent limp, and he lifted himself clumsily from the army vehicle, wondering at the change in temperature. Only days ago they'd been in the sweltering heat of the Fire Country border. Up in the north, the Leaf Village was tasting the chilling cold of winter. The rain, as he had always imagined, had failed to cease. It fell icy and wretched into his silvering hair.

His daughter was first out of the front door. Kakashi prepared himself for her to bound into him, a rosy whirlwind as always. Instead, she walked over to him slowly, with a long-limbed grace acquired in his absence. Her bangs were pinned back from her face in a manner he was unfamiliar with. Her nursing uniform moved across her silhouette in the soft way material shifts across women.

His daughter was growing up so quickly.

She embraced him, gingerly, as though he might snap like a dream at the squeeze of her arms. She smelled different; clinical, like bleach and sweat.

Where was the stench of paint; of words grasped on the basement wall, and of formulas memorised and committed to mind? Where was the smell he'd gotten so accustomed to?

Nineteen months made him feel cheated. Nineteen months. Is that how long it had been since he last embraced his beautiful little girl?

How much had he missed? How much of her development had slipped away from him in a hot, sweltering breeze, full of the scent of bodies and sand?

She spoke.

'I've missed you, Father.'

Kakashi instantly relaxed. Her voice was just as he had remembered – strong but weak, hopeful and cynical. He pulled her into himself and remembered the feel of her tiny frame in his big, older-man arms.

'I've missed you too, Piggy. So much.'

His wife was standing at the doorway to his house. She was thinner than he remembered, but only a little, and he knew it was because of her naturally devoted work ethic. Anko's efforts, he was sure, would have doubled in his absence.

She was smiling at him. Mock saluting with two calloused, bony fingers.

He smiled back.

He was home.

* * *

Naruto grinned boldly at Hinata. He was sat in the middle of a stone floor, and felt rather like a five year old boy. His face felt a little unfamiliar – he couldn't remember the last time he'd cracked such a smile.

She was smiling back at him. Her eyes shone in the reflection of the dusky light above. Shikamaru was slumped on the floor too, a ragged pad of paper in his hands and pen in his mouth while he thought. Every now and then he'd jot, quietly, and assess the goods.

The goods.

Next to Naruto was a pile of decadence and wealth. Pictures in gold frames. Ancient books blessed with gold leaf and hard-backed covers. Solid china crockery.

Precious, precious items for trade. All stolen from the mansion of _Fang_ supporter Hyuuga Hiashi. The raid had been a complete success. In and out with not a single footstep out of place. The lavish festivities had continued throughout a corner of the Hyuuga mansion undisturbed and the FOX crew were able to burrow in and explore thoroughly, thanks to Neji's dedicated plans. Wine flowed and spilled as ruby encrusted glasses spilled into Naruto's crude loot bag. Shikamaru raided the linen cupboards for fine cloths and silk bed sheets. Hinata placed strategic flyers where items were stolen, revelling in the goodness the paper projected.

In and out. No problems. A clean sweep.

They retreated to the basement of a FOX confident swiftly, bags heavy with life-giving goods. The sacks tinkered and rustled lavishly. They'd been emptied out carefully, and Shikamaru was eagerly (unusually) documenting their steals to take to black market traders in the morning.

'With this to trade,' Shikamaru broke the satiated silence, 'we should be able to hit the major camps a few times over with plenty of supplies. We're going to get a huge haul on the market. When are we trading, Naruto?'

'Tomorrow.' His reply was instant. Hard and smiling. 'We'll trade everything tomorrow. Every _second_ counts for the people behind the fences. I want to begin distribution of supplies tomorrow night.'

Hinata nodded her agreement. 'The sooner, the b—better.'

As the cool moon continued its slow rise outside the tightly drawn curtains, plans uncurled into the centre of the room. By the time the frosted stars glittered overhead, the room was empty, and the plans were neatly stored inside three eager, desperately loving heads.

* * *

Twenty-four hours.

With a mud-smeared face, Naruto stares over the top into the drudgery that lies behind the electrified fences. 002 is quiet. The rain has silenced any extra-curricular activity.

Naruto can feel the mud sliding along his skin. It has toughened, over years of digging and scrabbling in the dark. The dirt struggles in gravity tracks. Down his nose. From his eyebrows.

His eyes are keen, and he scans the area closely. He can see the shadows of bunkers, sleeping fitfully nearby. He knows behind the first bunkers lie rows, rows and rows. All identical. All with hard, crowded beds and hunkering lice.

All with people desperate for food, and clean water, too frightened and skinny and beaten-down to ask.

His contact has not arrived yet. He understands that meeting times have to be flexible under these circumstances. Sinking back into his tunnel, pulling a waterproof black hood over his head, he settles to wait.

* * *

Can you guess? Can you guess who his contact is?

Is it too easy?

I'm not changing it. Fateful cogs turn with or without your permission.

All you can do is sit and watch. Regardless of whether it's too simple. Regardless of whether it's unfair.

Regardless of who your favourite is.

Fate might listen to _me_, but certainly won't listen to _you_.

And I'm not willing to put in a good word.

* * *

He can hear a sort of snaffling around the exit to his tunnel. It is not the heavy sound of _Fang _boots he can hear. The feet are soft and delicate, moving quietly through the drowning mud. It is a woman.

It is his contact.

Swiftly he reaches his hand further into the tunnel. A small tin container, loaded with cool, fresh water, is passed faithfully into his grip. As a sign to his contact, and a safety to his team, he slips the container into the open carefully, feeling it settle in the wet sludge outside. The rain beats into the tunnel and taps insistently on his hood.

Another scuffling sound, and then a pair of eyes, squinting. Naruto isn't sure whether that's from the rain or out of sheer trepidation.

Naruto has never seen a pair of eyes so bright as those of the Uchiha brothers. For a moment he is startled; the dark hair, the pale skin – he could be looking as Sasuke through the darkness. Perhaps it is the buffering greyness of the night that makes her eyes appear so bright. Either way, Naruto stops short of himself and stares, just for a moment, at the eyes from the basement, raging at the futility of it all, shy in the sea of indifference staring right back.

'Konan?'

A nod. 'Yes, that's me. What's in the container?'

She speaks with a suspicion borne of living this way for years. Sniffing water to guard against mould and disease. Checking around every corner to guard against what may be hiding behind it.

'Clean water,' he replies quickly, recognising her concern. 'Traded and checked. We have over one-hundred bottles.'

Something flickers in her eyes. 'One-hundred? How?'

Naruto offers her the most confident grin he can muster under the circumstances. 'Plus food parcels and blankets. All here, in the tunnel for you.'

He looks behind her, staring into the lonely dark. 'Did you bring anyone else with you?'

A shake of her head. Her hair is dark. The rain is deep-settled in it.

'I can get some more. Some men. Wait.'

She fades backwards into a spattered shadow. Naruto lowers his head back into the relative safety of the tunnel. Beneath him, Hinata and Shikamaru are shifting the supplies forward. The water containers tinkled and rattled as they were stacked within arm's reach.

The cramped conditions. The cold, unremitting rain overhead, dribbling into the tunnel. The foul smell of the camp. The constant fear and adrenaline scouring his skin.

Every second is worth it. All of it.

* * *

Sasuke was just beginning to drift off. He had taken to thinking of home as he lay down each night. Imagining he was nine years old, being read to by an equally tired older brother, vastly improved his current sleeping conditions. The hard wooden bunker did not seem quite so unforgiving. The coughing, wheezing bodies around him did not seem quite so real.

In a strange way, it felt the more he thought about his brother, the more likely it was that he was still here, and still going. Since Konan had handed him that chewed up, cobwebbed hat, the days had been shorter and the weight of each and every task lifted. His brother – upon whom Sasuke had long given up despite all appearances – was in the camp. Logically he knew there was a good chance he was already dead; succumbed to some creeping disease bred in the infirmity of the bunkers or the brutal labour of the daylight. But his heart refused to reconcile with his head, and against every thought of starving ends or rotting muddy corpses Sasuke managed to convince himself wholly that his brother was alive.

Alive.

He looked for him every day. In the most reasonable and inconspicuous of ways of course. Lingering at the back of the food queue each morning to scan each head in the line and analyse it. Taking each moment when the _Fang _guard looked away to glance around the area, begging for a glimpse of that long black hair or that tall, straight back. The only time his efforts were ever really rewarded came as he closed his eyes, more weary than he let on, and let his bones relax into the brief, cold nights. Upon first arriving at the camp Sasuke found it so hard to sleep. But now he slept almost soundly, looking forward to the times during the night when he could block out each sight from the long, wet days and imagine a better place and a better time.

'Sasuke!'

Yahiko's hissing voice dragged him out of his near sleep and he snapped into a sitting position. He was instantly sharp.

'What?'

'You're needed. Konan has a big supply drop that we need to help move.'

His feet hit the floor, heavy but prepared. Konan was bent at the base of his sleeping area. It was very dark and he could only make out her hulked shadow. He reached to the bottom of the bed where he stored his tatty coat, smelling of damp and gradually rotting away but still able to provide some protection from the elements.

'Are we safe?' he asked, trying to clear the sleep from his throat and still keep his volume low. He could just about see her nodding.

'Yes. One guard is aware of our movements but he won't throw us in. The others are on different patrol routes tonight. Follow me' she whispered. 'It's just near the fence.'

Nagato slid from the bed next to Sasuke. His clothes looked lifeless and too-loose. His coat hung as though his body were branches. After a quick affirmative pause, the four of them bled silently through the bunker and broke into the wet night air outside.

The rain hit them immediately. An intense downpour smacking into their scalps. All four pulled up their hoods and stepped boldly forward, eyes glowering in their various degrees. Konan led the way, darting into the faux-streets and back alleys created by the huge rows of bunkers. Sasuke followed silently, listening to a conversation between Konan and Yahiko as they travelled. The less conversations they had, the less chance they had of being overhead.

'You're sure we're safe?'

'Absolutely. It's our usual guard. He won't have a problem.'

'And this man we're meeting – who is he? We haven't worked with him before...'

'I know. I've been in contact over the past few months. He's been desperate to get in here. I think he wanted to wait until he had something good for us.'

'What exactly has he brought?'

'I didn't see everything; water canisters with clean water, and food parcels and blankets. That's what he said.'

'Is he alone?'

'It's not a trap, Yahiko. I trust him. This FOX lot seem alright.'

Sasuke almost stopped short. _'FOX?'_

* * *

He is in the basement again. He is glaring at a paid of horrifically blue eyes, giving themselves away to a cause with eyes too big for its belly.

He is yelling. They both are.

There is blood, stinging and metal, on the cold floor.

The sense of parting. The sense of grievous loss.

The sense of pride being mourned.

* * *

Sasuke could see his hand reaching forward to tap Konan on the shoulder. He needed to clarify things. He needed to put his racing mind at rest for just a second. Itachi was alive. That was already more than he could hope for.

This couldn't be real.

'Did you say 'FOX'?'

The words were quiet and shy on his lips. He couldn't explain why he suddenly felt nervous. The rain deafened him. Konan didn't seem to hear him and rounded a sharp corner.

The men followed, and found themselves standing in the open. Facing them was the small expanse of sludge and soil between the bunkers and the fence. A few trees had stretched over the top of the electrified fence that ran around the edge of the compound. Their leaves drooped, defeated, in the onslaught of rain.

A small mound of burrowed earth could just about be made out, if Sasuke squinted. His heart pounded. At his side Nagato's chest heaved up and down. They all scanned the area for guards with sharp, narrowed gazes.

Konan moved forward first, confidently. Her boots made no noise on the wet ground. The air stank of mud.

'I'm back,' Sasuke heard her say. 'I've brought help.'

A rustling. The ground shifted.

Blue eyes.

_Blue eyes_.

Sasuke watched the scene unfold like he wasn't a part of it. It was like a picture moving behind a painting, trapped in the frame of his vision. Everything seemed scratchy and dry, despite the desperate rain. He felt trapped behind a piece of thick glass as he watched a blond haired, blue-eyed man with a harder face than he remembered clamber out of a hole in the ground and start unloading goods from below. Pale white hands passed the containers up into the open.

_She had a job to do. A man to protect._

_She swore it would not be his bones in the embers._

'_I'll be gentle. You can't sit up h-here with glass in your feet.'_

He knew those hands.

This was not reassuring in the slightest. He couldn't believe they were here. He never expected to see them on this side of the fence. Honestly he never expected to see them _at all_ again. Behind this strange, hard window, extricated from reality (surely this couldn't be real) and moving, breathing, _living_ at arm's length.

Had he lost his clutch on reality?

'What's wrong, Sasuke?'

Yahiko's utterance of his name brought him in. The glass didn't shatter or melt but simply disappeared and suddenly the rain was hard again on his back, running down his nose and into his mouth. And a pair of blue eyes snapped to him faster than a crack of lightning. A pair as pale as the well-hidden moon appeared at the mouth of the tunnel. They were wide and disbelieving.

'Naruto...'

No sooner than the words had fallen into the night was Naruto upon him, embracing his bony frame so tightly that it hurt – it really hurt. And once again the gap was closed. No shame, or regret over words said in anger or haste. Sasuke wasn't really surprised when his arms lifted and clutched at Naruto's waterproof coat.

'I can't believe it!' the blond was saying, over and over. He was probably too loud and bright to be considered safe. 'I can't believe I've found you!'

His shoulders were being clutched in strong, well-fed hands. He couldn't believe they fit all the way around his upper arms so easily.

'Look at you,' he said with what looked to Sasuke like tears in his eyes. 'You're so thin.'

And for one quick moment, Sasuke forgot it all and was back in the school yard, faced with a precocious, bratty kid with a loud mouth and an irritating constitution.

'Idiot.' His voice was stronger than before. 'What did you expect?'

It was so familiar. Like they'd never been apart. A soft, silver shadow appeared at his side and Sasuke found Hinata staring up at him. She did not speak. She simply gazed. Sasuke suspected he must seem as unreal to her as she did to him.

He could see a tuft of spiky hair poking out of the tunnel, buoyant despite the rainwater. He knew it instantly to be Shikamaru.

'How are you all here?' he asked through a hammering heart. 'What are you doing?'

He was desperately trying to pull back the pieces of a life he'd almost forgotten. Konoha seemed hundreds of miles away, a dream dissipating in the brief forgetful moment of awakening. He knew those faces; the names hovered over their heads like upside down shadows.

'Kakashi!' he gasped quickly as he grabbed one of the names. 'Is Kakashi alive? And Anko, an—'

'They're all alive, yes,' Naruto replied swiftly, smile still brimming over in his eyes. Sasuke didn't think he'd seen anything so wonderfully blue in all his time at 002. 'Everybody is okay.'

He could weep with relief. He glanced once more at Hinata, grown taller and fuller with her hair caked to her scalp through daring and weather.

'We've b-been looking for you, Sasuke.'

Shikamaru was clambering out of the hole. His three friends from _this_ life, this cold, wet and starving life, watched on in bemusement as old relationships blossomed, like a flower starved of water for so many hard days.

'You actually know these people?'

Despite himself, Sasuke nodded. 'Yes. They're my fri—'

* * *

Too good to last, right?

Sorry, you with the eager eyes at the screen, begging for them to drag our dear Sasuke through the tunnel into the bright morning light of freedom.

I'm just not that kind.

Have you forgotten? It's still raining.

* * *

Before he could finish, Sasuke's words were trampled over by another's. A guard's.

Three guards', in fact.

They rounded the corner fast, snarling, vicious dogs in a cattery. Their pistols smiled silver in the rain.

'Go,' he found himself whispering. '_Go!_'

He did not know who he was whispering to. By the time the first shot rang out he was dragging Naruto and Hinata backwards, trying to ignore their feet slipping in the mud, into one of the thin corridors formed by the bunker structures. He thought he saw the others leap for another alley. There were plenty to choose from.

They paused for the quickest of moments, waiting to make their next move. Hinata trembled at his side. Naruto watched him. Those eyes were too bright. A dead giveaway.

'Just like last time,' he said with a white face and tight lips. 'Just like last time, with the rocks in the street...'

Sasuke played through the memory, fast. A wheelbarrow, thrown onto its side, guts of scrap spilling out into the ground. A hurled sandwich, tossed in haste. A bloody forehead and a bruised back.

'Nothing ever changes,' whispered Sasuke grimly. 'But you've got to get out. That's the only thing that matters now.'

'We came here to help!' Naruto hissed, fists globed into tight balls of anger. 'We didn't come here to run away!'

'What have I told you about playing the hero?' Sasuke shot back, aware of the sounds of a fracas no more than five metres away. The rain, and his heart, blinded him. 'Get out of here. Spread the word about this place. It's the best you can do for us now.'

He paused. Calmed himself. Took a moment to revel in the irony that Naruto had brought _FOX_ here to rescue the starving Reds but here was a starving Red rescuing _FOX_. It was with a sad pang in his chest that he realised that this really, _truly _might be his last encounter with Naruto.

'I'm going to run across to that other corridor,' he said efficiently, trying not to let the anguish of the moment show in his voice. 'I'm hoping they'll follow me. Sneak down to the end of this alley and take a sharp right. You should come out close to your tunnel.'

'S-Sasuke...' Hinata chirped. She sounded like a bird in a storm. 'We can't just l-leave you again...'

'You never left me before,' he said firmly, taking note of the firmness in her eyes. Where did that come from? 'And you won't do me any favours by staying. Both of you, go. Now.'

He couldn't bring himself to meet Naruto's eyes. He doubted he'd have the strength to dive out into the path of the _Fang_ if he did. There were too many memories locked away in them; delicate teasers of a story he had wrapped away deep in his body to stop it being tainted by the life he led now.

Without giving himself the chance to snap, Sasuke flung himself out of the corridor and into the open expanse.

* * *

There.

Now that's more like it.

* * *

He was instantly faced by the still body of Yahiko, flat on the ground. It was enough to grind him to a halt.

Yahiko.

_Yahiko_.

The hair seemed so pale. The eyes, glaring upwards, cocky even in death, seemed so still.

The blood seemed so... _red_.

No other bodies. Just Yahiko.

A bullet ripping past his shoulder with a growling whiz snapped him away from the body and back into motion. He could hear two pistols firing off. The thought of the hot smoke furrowing from the chambers filled him with a strange sense of warmth. He imagined Naruto and Hinata clambering back into their tunnel as his feet pummelled the ground. Shikamaru would be waiting in there for them. They would disappear safely, back into the relative security of the Leaf Village, and stay locked away in that sweet, silent set of memories he kept hidden so deep in his body. They wouldn't have to see any of _this_ again. They would live happy, healthy lives, with Kakashi, and Anko, and even Itachi, and of course, Sak—

A bright, bulleting light lodged itself into his thigh before he could think, or truly picture her. As he was rocketed into the corridor he'd been running for, as his face hit the seeping dirt, as the light exploded into a pain he knew he could never describe, Sasuke was glad of it.

He'd known it was a sin to think of her, even to _try_ and think of her, in this place. He scrambled heavily to his feet, inhaling sharply at the agony clawing its way up his left thigh into his groin and pelvis, almost numbing his whole side. The rain seemed to keep him focused and he staggered onwards, using the wall as a support, into the maze of alleys and dark passages created by the bunkers. The voices of the guards melded into a funny sort of rainy patter, and leaked away into a dark drain as he carried on pushing himself, a wounded animal, a dying shadow, through the night.

* * *

They emerged at the original entrance to the tunnel after a good five minutes of crawling and hurrying with a bleeding and cursing Shikamaru, and then the three of them fled swiftly into the nearby woods. They knew it was the most effective hiding place on offer. Hinata tried to treat Shikamaru's shoulder, which had taken a good scratch from a well-aimed bullet and was stinging enough to force the normally lethargic man to tremble.

They huddled together in the scanty shelter provided by Konoha's trees. Hinata thought she could hear the words 'So close'.

Naruto wept. Openly.

She gladly joined him.

* * *

Sasuke couldn't honestly say how long he'd been moving when he suddenly tasted mud. It was thick and bitter on his teeth. He thought he might have hit his head on his way down because it ached thunderously and his face felt bloody. A pair of weak hands was rolling him over and dragging at him, pulsing insistently at his shaking body.

A woman's voice. A dry blanket from goodness knew where. A roof and a bed that felt hard and familiar.

It was Konan, he was almost sure. And the white hands belonged to Nagato. And the blood collecting on the hard wooden cot was his own.

'Stay with us,' Konan was mumbling. 'Don't go to sleep, Sasuke. Please,'

He wished he had the energy to tell her that he didn't have a choice. His leg throbbed and made him nauseous. He'd never felt such adamant and ferocious pain. Glass in his feet was nothing to this. Sleep seemed like his _only_ viable option.

As he sank into it, despite Konan slapping his face (was she _crying_?), Sasuke pictured Naruto's eyes. They were clear as the sky without a single cloud, and not a jot of Red invaded them.

They were safe.

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry about the wait, guys. Life is tremendously busy and doesn't seem to understand my need to update. Never fear. RED _will _be finished. Pinky promise.

Of course, I can't guarantee that everyone will survive, but I will finish the story!

Thanks for your patience. Reviews feed my brain and make me update faster.

Thanks to everyone for your reviews and subscriptions. You guys rock.

Over and out!


	20. Goals

**RED**

**Chapter 19: Goals**

* * *

Morning comes. It is tight fisted and does not allow for exceptions. Cold, slanderous rain continues to fall.

Between them, Konan and Nagato drag Sasuke out to the four o' clock roll call. He is not heavy but is difficult to manoeuvre. His body is hot with unhealthy sweat and blood continues to roll down his leg.

But he is determined.

'_I can't die here,' he mumbles in the small hours. 'Not while my brother is... not while there's still a chance...'_

Konan knows he is not likely to survive the next few days.

She and Nagato – pale, silent, eyes haunted – stumble along with Sasuke lynched onto their shoulders. It's hardly like they have the energy for this themselves. They're all undernourished. They're all freezing cold. They're all not likely to survive.

But the determination she had seen in his eyes when the regular call of the _Fang_ on duty had roused them from their bunks had reminded her too much of an absent face to refuse him. She cannot bring herself to wholly picture that face. She concentrates on the moment, the dribbling, cherry details, and the rain that whips them into near submission.

She cannot allow herself to stumble. Not yet.

Not now.

They arrive at their usual spot in line. Konan knows she must leave shortly; her cloak is currently hiding her identity from the world but if the guards discover her sex she will be instantly executed. Females are not permitted here. She needs to attend her own role call.

'Can you manage from here?' she mutters quickly to Nagato. His eyes don't seem quite in the right place. To her relief he nods mutely.

'Good. I will find you later for an update. If you can, find something to clean his wound. Don't use the water here.'

'Be safe, Konan.' His voice is toneless and exhausted. 'You must be safe.'

She listens to what he isn't saying. There is so much. She can't possibly allow herself to sink into it. There will be time.

'I know. The same applies to you. Both of you.'

She tries to address Sasuke. His eyes watch the ground, and his head seems too heavy for him to support. She gently slips from under the arm she is supporting and feels Nagato pick up the slack.

'Listen to me,' she whispers, her voice efficient and steady. 'I have to go now. We're at roll call. My plan today is to have a sniff around and see if I can pick up any of the lost supplies from last night. I will be coming back to check on you later. Are you going to be here to see me?'

He doesn't answer. Konan can smell the blood on him. The rain is mingling with it, making it stink.

'Oy!' she hisses, grabbing his face with a dirty hand. The steadiness is leaking. 'You're going to have to do better than that! Will you be here to see me when I come back, Sasuke?'

The _Fang _guard is walking to take his place at the front of roll call. His boots crunch the sodden ground. Hundreds of wet, shivering bodies surround them and Konan knows she is running out of time. She must leave.

She drops her hand and glances worriedly at Nagato; she does not want to leave him to be discovered. He is watching Sasuke intently, chewing his bottom lip.

'_How can we have hoped to get him through this?' _she thinks dismally. _'He's too ill. The _Fang _will see him a mile off. And when they see _him_, they'll see _us_.'_

Nagato's expression switches to one of mild surprise as Sasuke's weight shifts. 'Wait... wha-'

And suddenly, Sasuke is standing on his own. His posture is dreadful and it is clear to Konan that the small act of balancing without Nagato's support is sapping him of energy. She can see every vein in his clenched fists as he pulls himself vaguely upright. His right leg is merely resting upon the ground to offer some sort of balance, and his left shakes with the strain.

'I promise.' The gruff rawness in his voice causes Konan's hands to fly to her face. He sounds as though he is sobbing. Each breath seems a ragged struggle. 'I promise I will be here later. I promise.'

There are tears in her eyes and she casts one last glance at Nagato. He is fighting the contortion of emotion on his face. The muscles twitch.

The desperate promise. It sounds so much like Yahiko.

Sasuke shifts himself further away from Nagato, attempting to dispel any suggestion that he may be using him for support. The _Fang_ guard has taken his place before the mottled crowd. As he begins to call names across the chilled rain of the morning, Konan slips away toward her own section of the camp, clinging desperately to the hope that her two remaining boys will still be alive at the end of the day and trying viciously to snuff Yahiko's smiling face from her mind.

* * *

_14__th__ November 043. _

_Neji was arrested yesterday. I'm not sure what for. The news has flown around town that he was caught with pro-RED fliers in his backpack. They are clamping down hard on us. It's not hard to see why. _

_The war is going badly. More and more soldiers are returning with severe injuries from the front. There is a lock-down on the obituaries section in the press but word travels fast, and the subject of every conversation seems to be that another son or lover has died in battle. That, or it's the news of another arrest. Last week I heard a fellow proselytising that what has happened was wrong – that the war is futile, that the Reds are needlessly persecuted – I just hurried by on my way to work, of course. I've learned never to show my true face to the outside world. But on my way back home that night I looked for him and found only a patch of browning red on the ground where he had stood. I see enough of that particular shade to know exactly what that patch was. _

_As bad as all of this is – the gloomy talk, the news of deaths, the horrific injuries, the tough crackdown – it brings me hope. A secret, silent sort of hope that belongs to just me. _

_The war will be over soon. _

_We can't keep this up. Konoha is huge but our resources are not infinite. There are only so many people we can throw at Orochimaru's ideals before we simply run out of man power. There are only so many injuries one country can take before it starts to fall apart internally. _

_When it does, I will be ready. I know the time will come when I will take off my mask and be my real, true self again. I refuse to sit back and let the world shape itself around me again. The last time that happened, everything fell apart. I will not watch the backs of those who protect me disappear into the distance. I will work and work for this country, just like I do now – I work to fix the broken men who stagger back to us, questioning everything they've been taught and wondering how to get their lives back again. But I will work even harder when the war is over – I will work to promote equality and citizenship for all. I will work to make Konoha a better place, where people can live without fear of judgement or aggression. _

_Of course, I'm probably being idealistic. It's impossible for one girl to change to world in the way I'm hoping. But for now, I can move confidently toward a better future with each wound I treat and with each life I save. _

_In the meantime, life at home has changed quite a lot. I like Yamato. When he first arrived he was very quiet – Father explained to me that he has lost everything and was still in shock – but he has come out of himself and is a very pleasant man. I think he has realised that there is nobody who has lost nobody – an inevitable consequence of this war. So he is glad of our company and is fairly cheerful most of the time. While Father works (the bookshop has picked up trade since he has returned!), Yamato helps with deliveries or makes himself as useful as possible around the house. Mother is snappy and rude to him – which is probably a sign that she likes him, knowing that woman. He seems to be content with his lot, and he quite often visits me in the basement – usually when I'm writing in my diary (I daren't keep it above ground in the main house) to ask how my day has been. _

_Father seems his old self. Cheerful and easy going, with a knack for handling Mother in the worst of moods and the ability to make me smile no matter the horrors I have seen throughout the day. He is so good to me; he tells me every day how proud he is of what I have achieved and how well my career is moving along. I think part of his praise stems from a genuine pride in the way he has raised me. But I think part of it is fuelled by guilt. About what used to be in the basement. I think he's trying to reassure himself that some good things have come from his life to distract him from what he views as failure on his part. It's not, of course – I know Father did everything he could – but I get the feeling he will always treat that section of our lives as a catastrophe brought about by his own actions. By what he 'didn't do'. _

_He is wrong. It was brought about by the world out there. The world fighting and tearing itself apart. The world that throws weeping, wounded men at me and tells me to fix them up. The world that has arrested Neji Hyuga without a whisper of opposition. _

_It can't last. It _won't_ last. _

_As for Neji – well, I'm not sure what will happen to him. Hinata is distant and confused in work. I tried to speak to her this morning but she was vague and her eyes seemed to be looking somewhere else. She is in shock, I suppose. There are some things you don't expect anyone to be a part of – and some things you never expect them to get caught doing. She knows that as well as anyone. And the news, I imagine, is a little too close for comfort. _

_She updates me on Naruto and his escapades but never goes into too much detail. It's not safe. A failed job a few nights ago has put them underground and even though Hinata won't tell me the details I know Naruto is heart-broken over something. She skirts around it all like she's hiding the facts – like I'll be in danger if I know the truth. She is probably right. But I hope Naruto gets back out of his slump soon. If I'm working hard on moving forward and changing this world, then I should hope that he is too. We used to gaze into the river together and imagine our ideal world, and I won't let anything stop me from diving right in when the time comes. _

_I hope he will be ready too._

* * *

Nagato allowed himself the tiniest sigh of relief as roll call passed without incident of note. He had been waiting for some hidden _Fang _guard to step forward and positively identify him as one of the miscreants from the night before. He was sure they got a good look at him. At all of them.

But nothing was said. No mention of Yahiko, or the raid, or anything. A tiny, paranoid voice in the back of his mind (which all of a sudden seemed closer to the front) whispered that they were just biding their time – that they would sneak out of the shadows and shoot him when the moment suited _them_ – but he knew he couldn't give in to the seductive, paranoid twists of his own fear when he had a patient to take care of.

Sasuke managed to stay standing throughout the whole of roll call. It was blessedly quick – only two hours, today. Perhaps the _Fang_ had enough of standing in the rain watching them shiver. But the two hours had dragged. And Nagato had fully expected Sasuke to topple over at any moment. He didn't want to see another person shot. He didn't want to see another _friend _murdered before him.

Thankfully (miraculously) Sasuke had stayed upright. There had been a few moments of dangerous-looking sway, but Sasuke had muttered something quietly to himself and it seemed to balance him for a little while longer. He'd even managed a solid sounding 'Here!' when his name was called. Unless the _Fang_ could see the blood slowly collecting at his feet they wouldn't know that anything was wrong.

After the _Fang_ had left and the crowd started to disperse, Nagato caught sight of Sasuke buckling and jumped to his aid immediately.

'I'll get you back to the barracks,' he said quietly, pulling Sasuke's arm around his shoulder and walking slowly. 'I'll have to leave briefly to get breakfast, but I'll bring you something back. You have to eat. Then you can rest.'

'No rest.' Sasuke's voice was forced out between his teeth. His limp was obvious. 'We have to go on as normal. You and I are going... to work.'

'Impossible!' Nagato found himself speaking with more conviction than he was used to. 'You won't last an hour!'

'I don't have a choice!' Sasuke hissed back at him. Nagato took him in. Hair slicked to his scalp with heavy rain, skin flushed and sweaty, but eyes, red and dangerous, refusing to leave his own. 'I won't ruin what we have worked for. Besides, with the hot fire and tools, we can close up this damned hole in my leg and carry on like we always have.'

'You've got to be joking,' Nagato breathed. 'I'm not a doctor. I can't do something like tha-'

'If you can't then _I will!_'

They stumbled over a small patch of slightly uneven ground and Sasuke broke off their conversation with an agonised cry as the floor jolted against his injured leg. Nagato stopped instantly and waited for Sasuke, feeling the weight of his friend seem to increase. For a moment he thought Sasuke was going to be sick; he retched and dragged his breath in and out in a controlled effort to master the pain. After a long, gritty minute he seemed to recover himself.

'We mustn't,' he half whispered, closing his eyes momentarily, 'just roll over and die. We _can't_. We have things to achieve. Goals. I know what mine are. What are yours, Nagato?'

Nagato wanted to hide behind his thick ginger hair. He hated thinking about his goals, and his desires, and his dreams in this place because they seemed to get further and further away. His hand stretched out to each dream as though a star in the sky, but no matter how far he stretched, they were always out of reach.

One shone brightest to him now. There had been two, together, but overnight one of them had imploded in the wake of a frantic shot in the dark, leaving a black patch in the sky and one lonely star throbbing away across the ink of the universe.

'Konan,' he said firmly. 'I want to protect her. When we get out of here, I want to live with her. And look after her. Her happiness has always been my goal.'

He knew Sasuke had expected an answer like that. Konan's affection for Yahiko had always been blatant, but Nagato had continued to love Konan despite knowing she would never return the feelings. And he knew Sasuke had noticed. For some reason, it had never really bothered him. In the midst of the horror of the camp, and the putrid smell of death all around them, the secrecy of private crushes or lonely hearts seemed to matter little. So it didn't feel too unsettling to reveal himself to his patient.

'Well then,' said Sasuke, straightening himself back up. 'Who am I to let this little wound get in the way of you reaching your goal? You can't run the smithy without me. If you can help me get back on my feet fast, I will help us keep the smithy going. It keeps us alive. The longer we're alive, the more chance we've got of getting out. Agreed?'

Nagato could hardly argue. 'I know. You're right. But you're... dying. I can't fight biology.'

He hadn't expected Sasuke to half laugh and issue a derisory snort. 'Dying? Come off it. I've had worse injuries from working in the smithy at home. This is just a scratch.'

'_He's kidding himself,'_ Nagato realised sadly. _'He's trying to come to terms with the fact that this wound will probably kill him by... making light of it!'_

'Sasuke...'

'Didn't you say something about breakfast?' Sasuke muttered as they reached the barracks. They stepped inside, out of the rain. Emptiness faced them; the rest of the prisoners would be queuing in the food house, scrapping over any spare slop of food and returning with stale pieces of bread or bowls of thin turnip soup. 'Hurry, before everything gets taken. I can't do this on an empty stomach. If you don't get me something to eat I'll end up eating _you _and that's hardly a prospect I relish. You're all bones.'

Nagato shook his head as he lowered Sasuke onto the hard, blood-stained cot he called his own. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. Sasuke had _never_ been the type for cracking jokes. He was stoic and might occasionally chip in with the odd dry remark but humour was the forte of Yahi—

'_Oh.'_

'I'll get what I can,' Nagato offered with a grateful smile. 'Rest. After we've eaten we can go to the smithy and try to fix you.'

'_He's not kidding himself at all.' _He slipped Sasuke's arm from around his shoulder and the man instantly lay back on the bed, letting his eyes close.

'_He's kidding me.'_

* * *

A little later Sasuke found himself on the floor of the make-shift smithy. The _Fang_ they worked for used to check in on them every day, when they'd first started, but that was months ago and due to the quality of their work he'd taken to spending his mornings selling off their wares across the camp.

Sasuke knew they had some time.

He told himself he'd got past the worst of it. Standing in the rain had nearly killed him, he was sure. He'd never known rain to feel so heavy; logically he knew it was just water but each drop felt like metal slamming into his skin. He wasn't really sure he'd even been conscious for the whole time. The end had been signalled by Nagato grabbing him roughly and keeping him upright.

He knew he had to seal the wound. It was creeping down his leg like a liquid spider and every morsel of blood he lost brought him closer to closing his eyes and never opening them again. Besides. Wasn't his blood supposed to have special healing powers? Isn't that what the text books taught? He needed to _retain_ as much of it as possible. Special healing. A miracle. He knew he needed something like that to survive the next twenty-four hours.

Bluffing to Nagato had been surprisingly easy, despite his lack of energy and the funny black haze encroaching on his vision. The shy, jumpy man was frightened and lacked his counterpart to dissolve the fear into smiles. Sasuke refused to allow himself to give into his own worries and pains when Nagato was inches away from breaking down out of grief for his dear friend. He needed him sensible and sane to get through the sealing. He knew his own strength would probably give out in the face of what must be done.

After settling into the warmth of the smithy and allowing it to comfort his bones briefly, Sasuke pulled himself to the blazing fire and started to heat some tools. Nagato was watching him carefully.

'You're sure about this?'

'No other options,' replied Sasuke brightly, gazing into the flames as they tenderly licked the black instruments. 'I can't just keep losing blood. I really _will _die that way.'

He knew his brightness was probably a result of delirium. He didn't care. It was keeping Nagato relatively calm and pliant. The tip of the small set of tongs in his hand suddenly glowed white, and he took as deep a breath as his shaking body would allow him.

'Okay, Nagato. Are you ready?'

For some reason, the smithy around him was looking more and more like the one he remembered at home. He could distinctly see his brother hammering at what looked like a glowering sword, sweat dripping from his brow and sheening across the flushed skin of his arms.

'You need to get the bullet out with these. Try and be quick. They're sterile. Then use the poker to seal the wound. Burn it until there's no more blood coming out. Don't let it blister too much if you can help it.'

The calmness of his own voice was eerie. He could see himself, tugging at the trouser leg of the busy, sweating Itachi.

'_Itachi! Itachi!'_

He left the tip of the tongs and poker in the grate of the fire and pulled off his flimsy trousers. Nakedness didn't matter here.

_His brother stops. 'Sasuke, you shouldn't come near me when I'm beating. It's dangerous.' He slips his tool into a wrought iron holster and bends down to meet his gaze. _

'Don't stop until it's done. Alright?'

He was sure Nagato nodded. He could hear his footsteps as he stretched out the injured leg. The bullet had entered at the inside back of his right thigh and had failed to exit. There was a patch of skin somewhere in the middle at the front of his thigh which suggested the location of the bullet within the muscle. The skin at the front was a mess of purple and blue bruises. The tiny, almost insignificant wound at the back choked out black blood in a steady dribble.

'_I cut my finger!' the tiny Sasuke wails. He cannot be more than six years old. He holds out the affronted index finger, demonstrated what looks like a thick burn on the pad. 'It hurts!'_

'I'm sorry, Sasuke.'

'_Oh, I'm sorry, Sasuke.' His brother's voice is always so kind and gentle. 'I didn't realise.'_

Stretched cloth was thrust into his mouth. He bit down on it readily. The sound of the metal leaving the grate tiptoed over his ears.

'_That's not a cut. That's a burn.' Even the mild discomfort of his sore finger cannot prevent Sasuke from listening carefully to his brother. He loves to learn from him. 'Only a little one, but a burn nonetheless.'_

'_What's the difference?' Sasuke asks, squinting at the rough, dark skin on his finger. _

The tongs were close. He could feel the heat on his skin.

'_A cut bleeds, because the skin has been torn apart. A cut hurts from inside. But a burn does not bleed. It lives on the top of your skin, and hurts from the top inwards.'_

He could hear his breath, quick and terrified, dragging in and out of his nose. He bit down harder.

The tongs connected.

'_How do you fix a burn?'_

The world went white.

'_Easy!' His brother smiles. 'You take the burnt area...' He grasps Sasuke's finger gently. 'And you lift it like this...' He lifts it, slowly. Sasuke watches in wonder._

'Hold still, Sasuke! I can't quite... I need to go a little... deeper in...'

He'd tried his best not to cry out, but couldn't stop himself. He could hear his own screams, heavy and sobbing, as they smashed into the cloth in his mouth.

'_And then... the last step...'_

_Sasuke's eyes are wide._

'Got it! Just let me seal it... hold on...'

The noise of metal scraped on the grate. A small pause, and then white again.

'_The last step... is this.'_

_Sasuke finds his finger pressed to his brother's lips. Those older, bright red eyes are sparkling at him._

He could smell it. His screams were ragged and he choked on the rag in his mouth again and again.

'_A kiss from someone who wants you to get better!' His brother is smiling. Sasuke's tiny hand curls up. The pain is still there._

'Just ... nearly...Don't you disappear on me now, Sasuke! Remember your promise!'

'_Of course, the pain won't just instantly stop.' His brother's teeth flash white as he grins and speaks at the same time. 'But I've given you the 'Big Brother Remedy' – it's guaranteed to fix any wound, with time. You do believe me, don't you?'_

The white switched to a heavy black, which seemed to creep all over his body and press into him. The sound of his screams was making him nauseous. He was sure that if he curled up in the blackness, he'd feel better.

'NO! Remember your promise to Konan! She'll be back later!'

His promise. He'd promised to be there. And he knew, somewhere in the still focusing section of his brain, that he couldn't be in two places at once. Not the black place _and_ the smithy.

'It's done!'

The metal clinked against the floor. The rag was removed from his mouth and his outcries doubled in volume. A pair of shaking arms wrapped around him and pulled him in. Slowly, he began to see the room around himself again.

The floor was littered with spats of blood, as though flicked from a thick paintbrush. A dirty black bullet lay abandoned, still claiming small chunks of himself in its escape. The smell of burned meat filled the whole room. The tongs and poker lay redundant.

Filled with sickness, Sasuke glanced up at the man cradling him. Nagato was crying, and trembling heavily.

'Please don't ever ask me to do anything like that again...'

His own eyes were wet and stung. He glanced shakily down at his leg, turning the quivering limb to allow himself to see. The back of his thigh was sealed. The skin was mottled red and black.

'_Of course I believe you, brother!' Sasuke's response is light. The wound still hurts but the sting seems less aggressive. 'You've been doing this for longer than me. But...'_

'I won't. I couldn't.' He managed to speak. He could taste sick in the back of his mouth.

'I need to wrap it, but at least you won't bleed to death now.'

'Thank you, Nagato.'

'_What happens if _you _get hurt? You don't have a big brother to give you the 'Big Brother Remedy'!'_

_Itachi smiles._

* * *

Hinata comes home from work tired. Her muscles ache from being tensed up in surgery all day. In the morning she assisted on a small amputation procedure (only three fingers to remove) but the afternoon had been taken up by attempting to repair a punctured lung and the surgery had been a failure. Her patient had died on the operating table. It seems strange that months ago Hinata would have come home and wept about this, but now it seems a regularity and she can hardly bring herself to feel bad.

But she still does.

She steps through the front door of the house she still shares with Hanabi and some other relatives to find her sister facing her in the hallway.

'There's a man here to see you,' she says in a steady voice. Hinata can instantly see her sister is nervous. She nods reassuringly, trying not to let her head race to the worst conclusions.

'He's in the living room.'

Summoning the little strength left in her muscles, Hinata forces a strict dignity into her steps. If she is going to be arrested, she will be arrested in a noble manner. They got her cousin Neji early yesterday. She has been waiting for them to arrive for her.

She pushes the heavy oak living room door open and steps in with her head held high.

The mass of golden blond hair slumped upon her couch is not what she was expected.

'Ca-Can I help you?' she asks, keeping up appearances for her sister's sake. She pushes the door shut, and as soon as it clicks she drops the pretense.

'Naruto!' she whispers. 'This isn-isn't like you! Wh—what are you doing here?'

He looks up at her from his seat on the velvet upholstered couch. Maroon. Deliciously soft. He seems to have sunk into it.

'I received a letter today.'

Hinata forces herself to inhale and exhale. Slowly. Deeply. In through her nose. Out through her parted, full lips.

'What d-does it say?'

He hands it to her. His tanned face looks ashen. The letter is crumpled and one end is torn. She unfolds it with trembling hands.

The top line is all she needs to see.

'_ORDER OF CONSCRIPTION.'_

The dignified facade is forgotten and Hinata sinks to her knees, unable to even read further. She buries her face into the letter as though it can offer some sort of perverse form of comfort and tears instantly sully the ink.

'Me and Shikamaru,' Naruto says flatly. 'And a couple of other members of FOX, actually.'

Her heart is breaking. Their work. Their good, life saving work.

Torn to shreds with a single letter.

'They must have found us out.'

'But h-h-how?' she breathes. 'Nobody would have thrown us in!'

Naruto sighs. 'Who knows? One thing is for certain, though.'

He slips from the couch and joins her on the softly carpeted floor of her living room. The tears are gathering at her chin, dripping from the point.

His breath is tempered with the effort to keep himself in check. Hinata meets his gaze fearfully, not willing to hear what she knows he must say.

'FOX is finished.'

* * *

Night falls as swiftly as the rain across the camp. The workers return to their barracks exhausted. Two in particular know they have a rough night ahead.

Nagato lowers Sasuke onto the stiff cot for the second time that day. His limp is less pronounced but his walk stiffer and ungainly. Nagato has managed to wrap the wound in a clean-ish cotton rag but they both know it won't stay clean for long. Sasuke, weariness etched into his face, leans back onto the cot and closes his eyes.

Nagato waits for a moment, watching to make sure Sasuke drifts off into a blank sleep. They have endured the afternoon as well as possible, even managing to produce some basic pots and pans for the _Fang_ guard to sell the next day. Fortunately the guard had only visited late in the day, and when asked about the funny smell in the back room of the office, Sasuke quickly covered with some rubbish about rotten wood on the hearth.

Once Sasuke's breathing seems as even as it is going to get, Nagato slips out. He and Konan have a number of meeting places and he knows that if he waits long enough in one of them, she will appear. In the wet dusk, he darts in and out of the corridors of the barracks, leading him eventually to a small outhouse about fifty metres from the barrier to the women's camp. He has chosen this one for a reason today. Because of the smell of the outhouse, this was Yahiko's least favourite meeting spot. It will be the easiest for them to face.

Sure enough, after twenty minutes or so, Konan appears. She is swept in her thick cloak and darts over to Nagato with a grace she must have been born with. She embraces him; he returns it gladly.

'I'm happy to see you,' she mumbles.

'But!' she pulls away sharply, as though remembering herself. 'You are a _dreadful_ doctor, Nagato!'

He frowns, ginger fronds of hair slipping across his wrinkled forehead. 'What do you mean? I've done well today! Sasuke _made me _burn his wound shut! You know what he's like – a hard man to refuse!'

Konan stares at him, her face stilled and trapped in a confused expression.

'Wait. You sealed his wound. When?'

'I suppose about eleven this morning. We were in the smithy all afternoon. I wrapped it and we actually got so-'

'But...'

She isn't listening to him. Her thoughts are louder than his words. He is not surprised.

'I saw him this afternoon on construction detail! He looked in dreadful shape! I saw him and instantly made up my mind to yell at you when I saw you...'

Nagato blinks. 'You can't have seen Sasuke. He has been with me all afternoon. He certainly wouldn't have been up for construction detail. He can hardly walk.'

Konan is frowning. As her mind works her eyes light up in pretty hues of scarlet.

'If it wasn't Sasuke, but _looked _like Sasuke...'

Nagato's breath is frozen in his throat. Only that morning they'd been speaking of goals and dreams and Sasuke had said he knew what his own was.

Konan grins. Mischievously. Her sharp teeth draw Nagato's eye. Moment like this he wishes he had the confidence to kiss her.

Her grin is infectious.

'We've found him.'

* * *

_Itachi smiles. _

'_Well, you're right. I don't have an older brother to give me the 'Big Brother Remedy'. But... there is another cure, which works _even _better!'_

_Sasuke gasps. 'We need to find it! Just in case you get hurt! What is it?'_

_Itachi chuckles. His laugh is warm and deep. _

'_The best cure of all for when a bigger brother is hurting...'_

_He is smiling again. Sasuke doubts he will ever forget that smile._

'_... is a great big hug from his little brother! It's called the 'Little Brother Remedy'. And... come to think of it...'_

_He rubs his back. 'I really overworked myself today. My back is killing me...'_

_Sasuke is upon him before he can even finish his sentence. A bone-crushing, tiny-armed hug around the neck. _

'_I will always be here...' mumbles the child, 'with the 'Little Brother Remedy'. Whenever you need it.'_

_Itachi's smile is softer, now. The heat of the furnace lights them both in a sunset glow. _

'_Thank you, Sasuke.'_

* * *

A/N: Special thanks to Arcane Azmadi, who has created a TV Tropes page for this fanfiction. If you'd like to review, discuss or comment upon the story in a more open forum than the fanfiction website, I'd encourage you to go there; type 'TV Tropes RED fanfiction' into Google and it will be the first link. It's also useful for interpreting symbolism or "underneath the underneath" tidbits that I have woven in for the keen-eyed reader; if you have struggled with any aspects of plot with this story (I know a few readers have found some early sections confusing due to the choppy narration and cut-away style of writing) then the TV Tropes page is good for gaining some perspective.

Please let me know what you thought of this rather grizzly chapter. I struggled writing it because of the very vivid subject matter and felt uncomfortable at a number of stages. Knowing the plot, I'm sure there is more discomfort to come.

Thanks as always to editor Janine for helping out. And thanks to all reviewers so far; your reviews do touch me very deeply. To know my work is affecting you on an intimate level is a great honour and I will always strive to improve for you. I've had some comments indicating that readers believe 160 ish reviews for this story is 'criminal' and so if you can think of any ways in which we can improve the readership of this story, I am all ears! But for now, you, my loyal readers, will of course do perfectly well enough. Your support and dedication to see this piece of work out means so much to me!


	21. 21 Fate

**Red 20: Fate**

_Bitterly, bitterly cold. I had always heard rumours but I never really believed them. I would have thought I'd learned my lesson a long time ago about always believing what you hear – especially if it's exactly what you don't _want_ to hear – but I suppose I will never quite kill off the optimist in my heart. _

_The cold might._

_It is our sixth week in Cloud. I don't know what day it is; the dawns and dusks have started to look the same and blur into a single white line. I haven't seen a green thing since the shabby train pulled us away from Konoha and piled us up on the white line. The only other colours I can remember seeing while I have been here are blue and red. _

_We are devastatingly short-supplied. Each of us have been issued a thick coat but it does nothing to keep out the cold. I've never known anything like it; it is invasive, like water, and soaks into your bones and festers there. We each have a rifle but the quality is poor. Otherwise I suppose we're expected to fight with sticks or any other objects stiff enough we may come across in the snow. _

_Shikamaru is not bearing up well. He is very thin and I think the cold freezes his thoughts. He should not be on the battlefield. His mind is good – very good – but his body cannot continue in this ice. He showed me his feet last night. I have given him my last pair of socks. _

_The Allies are well-equipped. They are efficient. They seem at home in the chill of the white line. They have been here much longer than we have, defending their land, learning the tips of survival you can _only_ learn through living in a place for hundreds of years. They seem stronger, and fitter, and more colourful than the soldiers on my left and right. I can hardly bear a grudge against them. We all do what we have to. _

_We have launched three offensives during our time here and none have been successful. Each has ended in a hasty, bloody retreat, and every time we leave bright trails for our enemies to follow in the snow. They find us. We move, like rats in terror scurrying from an exterminator. _

_Now I know how the Reds felt. Now I can really, truly understand. They may not have been clouded in thick white ice like we are but the hate of a thousand people stings just as cold. Skitting from rat hole to rat hole. It is no sort of life. _

_Another major offensive tomorrow. Shikamaru and I analysed the plans earlier and we know it will fail. Each of us just has to hope we can keep each other alive. We're taking it one day at a time, and while we still have food rations and a blanket to look forward to in the bunkers, we have a reason to stay standing, I suppose. That's what it comes down to. I always thought it would be Hinata (her face, her soft hands, her plum lips) guiding me like a beam. But I can't even bring myself to picture her out here. If I do I mostly see her lying in the snow, black hair spilled out like blood, sinking. And that is worse than anything I have to face._

_I should probably sleep. We are up early tomorrow for our mission briefing. I suppose it—_

Naruto wakes. He is in his warm bed in Konoha. The heat feels almost imaginative. It was a nightmare. A hellish prophecy. He looks at his hand, counts the fingers.

There are only three, so he pinches himself.

Naruto _really _wakes. He is standing on a field of snow and corpses. They are casketed in hard, venomous white, patterned with hypnotic scarlet polka dots. There is no movement. Not even the smoke from bullet shells.

Nothing.

He doesn't know where he just was, or where the time went, or indeed how much of it slipped away from him, or how he is standing.

Currently, he knows only one thing.

_This is my reality._

* * *

'What was it like for you?'

Kakashi and Yamato stood in the basement. It was warm and a little clammy.

Since returning

(since kissing his daughter a fond good night, since quietly, quietly making love to his long-limbed, passionate wife, since greeting the guest with a smile and a treat of eggs - so hard to come by - for breakfast), Kakashi wanted nothing more than to hide down here and breathe in the smell of guilt like he used to. He supposed that there were some things about himself that would never change: stupid kindness in the face of adversity, an abysmal unawareness of time and its movements, and the propensity to sink deep into the mistakes of the past, all too willing to drown in their unforgiving waters. The basement almost made him feel comfortable. It was a place he associated with abused responsibility and bad decisions, and he was happy to admit that bad decisions and life-shattering errors were what he'd built his life on. Guilt felt comfortingly felt like home.

He'd been wary about bringing Yamato down to the basement - not because he was worried about any potential snitchery, heavens no! - no, it was more to do with that feeling of looking into a watercolour from the outside. He was very conscious that Yamato was still grieving (coping extraordinarily well to be frank about it) and didn't want to do anything to make him feel excluded or omitted. If Yamato could gaze in at this once happy secret - a mothering, beautiful middle-aged woman, a bright eyed, merry young nurse, a pale-looking shadow with a bounty on his head and an ageing man finally allowing himself to clutch at the ribboned ends of absolution - but never really be a _part_ of it, then it might just strike him a little too close to the bone. Who was Kakashi to interfere with the well-wrought channels of grief?

Sakura had convinced him to stop listening to his own thoughts and just pay a little attention. Yamato had already asked about Sasuke. He'd asked about Sakura's job, her friends; he'd asked about Anko's distant family and favourite recipes. Once he opened his eyes and really took a good look at him, Kakashi realised that Yamato was healing himself with their life; the fabric of their memories he applied as a tourniquet to the gaping, gawping wound left by the eradication of his own.

So he consented, after a little daughterly encouragement, to give Yamato the tour of the basement. And he could see Yamato greedily clawing at every detail with his owlish eyes. He'd marvelled at the secret sleeping chamber, untouched since it was last slept in; he'd expressed such fine admiration at the small copper swan family arranged tenderly on the pillow. He'd fallen respectfully, miserably silent when he'd seen the window through which it had all shattered so desperately apart.

And Kakashi felt he couldn't much longer cope with the look of understanding pity being directed at him, so he changed the direction of events.

'Well, Yamato? You never really did explain your arrangements. Your Red in your basement. What was it like?'

Yamato stared up at the tiny, horrific window. 'To be honest,' he said with that tone of frankness Kakashi had come to recognise as only Yamato, 'it was easy. Nothing as complicated and risky as this. Our basement was in complete disrepair. There was an old bed down there from when relatives used to stay; we didn't make them stay in the basement, of course, but we kept the bed down there when it wasn't in use.' He chuckled at what Kakashi imagined to be the face of a dead relative hearing that their sleeping chambers would be a dank, dingy basement. 'We just popped him in a corner and kept him warm and fed.'

'Sounds like you're talking about a pet,' said Kakashi with a slight smirk. Yamato nodded earnestly.

'Yeah, except you dont go to prison for keeping a pet in the basement.'

The two men nodded slowly, each thinking their own secrets and wrapping up in memory coats. They would have stayed like that forever had Sakura not come down to interrupt.

'If you'll excuse me, gentlemen,' she smiled prettily, 'I have studying to do.'

But Kakashi had seen it. Seen through her snowy white lie.

He'd seen the diary, well-used and well-loved, in the corner of her writing table. He'd seen the way her eyes had touched it in tender desire.

And he saw, clear as rain, that he would be reading through it before the week was done.

* * *

What do you think he will see in there?

Naruto on the front, skin finally starting to lose its sunshine?

Sasuke, bent double in the November rain like an old, diseased man?

Himself? His little street, his book shop, his life?

His daughter?

What do yousee in a book filled with love and heartbreak? Apart from history, of course. That's all it is, and all you, and me, and _we_ are.

Ancient history.

* * *

The seventeenth day is the day that Sasuke finally starts to question himself. He wonders if everything is to do with his leg - sick people see things, he knows that, but he wouldn't say he's a _sick_ person because sick people lie coughing in beds and sip remedies and pray. He has done none of those things, not for want of trying but because he can't lie in bed, he's not coughing, he's limping, he has no remedies and he is quite, quite certain by now that nobody - NOBODY - is listening to the longings of his heart.

He had decided to follow his brother to the end, and, soggy trilby in hand (a desperate, disbelieving token of remembrance), he had volunteered for construction detail. The commanding _Fang_ had looked through him completely, offering him little more than a twitch before stepping to the side and allowing Sasuke to join the ranks. All of this stemmed from a heated, ravenous conversation with Konan about role allocation for new arrivals (the hat, after all, had been found in a fresh batch of work readies' belongings, which allowed Sasuke to formulate two hopeful theories: that his brother had been deemed 'fit enough to work' which meant that he was unlikely to be dead or close to dying at the time of camp entry: that the camp could kill quickly, but thanks to Konan's speed Sasuke was probably not too late).

* * *

_'Too late'_? Too late for _what_? What does he possibly think he can do in the face of all this... all this...

All _this_?

* * *

Konan had informed him that all new male arrivals were being allocated three weeks of construction detail; a new structure was being erected in the south west of the male camp and _Fang_ seemed to want it up in a hurry. Perhaps they were due an inspection, Sasuke couldn't guess. But, knowing the spot his brother was likely to be placed in, he instantly resolved to find him. He could bring him into their little operation - surely the greedy _Fang_ guard who sold their pots and daggers would appreciate the skill of Sasuke's older brother - the one who taught him _everything_ - and allow him into the fold. The very next day he'd hobbled (againt the advice of both Konan and Nagato) discreetly to the guard he believed to run construction detail and offered his services.

The guard clearly wasn't picky. Sasuke's 'discreet' limp was painfully obvious.

Still, he was allowed in. There were various smaller 'task squads' assigned to all sorts of duties: hod carrying, brick setting, mixing, cleaning, sweeping. For the first two days Sasuke (ignoring the nagging, logical voice at the back of his mind that tried to convince him that he must have a death wish) was placed on sweeping and cleaning in alternating shifts and from the third to the sixth days he was allocated the task of setting the brickwork around the eastern cornerstone of the structure. The thing was huge, and the foundations had not been laid correctly (he only knew because of the grumbling of another Red, tasked, like him, with setting, who was an architect by trade and could tell the timber foundations had been installed hurriedly and wrongly by unprofessional hands).

Sasuke resisted the urge to ask him what he expected. Not everyone was a camp veteran like himself. Let the architect hope for sense.

Knowing the unsteady foundations could collapse any time did not reassure Sasuke however and he found himself looking around skittishly, glaring at his surroundings, his world, angry that it wouldn't cough up his brother quickly enough. His hands blistered in the biting weather and his heart wept whenever he reminded himself (dully, resigned) that bricks would not set in the rain no matter how hard the _Fang_ screamed. Time, somehow, seemed to be running out.

This all continued, until the late hours of the sixth day.

He was wiping a slathom of gungy, thick mortar onto a sodden brick when he looked up and used his forearm to wipe the mixture of rain and sweat from his eyes. His hair still hung low and heavy and he'd noticed that only some of the newcomers were shaved bald upon entry these days. Either _Fang _resources were running thin, or they were just getting lazy.

Sasuke wiped his eyes and, squinting into the drowning sunset, saw him.

Hairless, thin and as tall as ever.

Itachi.

* * *

_'How?!' _I can hear you. _'How is he alive?! I watched him die, in the thunderclap, a bullet to the head, staring at the murderer of a dying blonde girl and betrayed by the one man he thought he could trust!' _

You mourned him. I watched you. I let you.

He is there. Limping across Sasuke's field of vision like a scandalous dream that refuses to fade away in the morning.

He is alive.

Not for long.

Who knows what you can believe any more?

* * *

Sasuke choked. He didn't know what on. And he spent a moment calmly telling himself to check it was real; to make sure it wasn't a labour-induced delusion, the ravings of a starving man, the fantasy of a freedom-starved mind.

He counted his fingers. Five. Not three, not four. Five.

By the time he'd focused himself and taken a deep breath, Itachi was gone.

And so here Sasuke finds himself, on the seventeenth day. The day when the questions really start to yell. He is carrying spindly, long beams of timber from the wood-drop a quarter of a mile away to the construction site, shivering in rain that seems to only ever get colder, wondering when the foggy haze will turn to frost and bind up his toes. The load is surprisingly light but after the empty, wet hell of the past eleven days since the sighting he wonders if he has just become unable to feel it anymore.

Every day he had waited. And every second he waits. He is searching, forever scraping the hair (long, like his brother's) out of his eyes, hoping for a repeat event, hoping for another glimpse to catch.

Eleven days with nothing. Hundreds of unfamiliar faces. A few dead on the side of the paths. He has learned to look at them as quickly as possible, to only stare for as long as it takes to establish that they are _not_ his brother. Then he bites down the sick in his throat and gets on with it.

It has been long enough now for him to genuinely wonder whether it was a hallucination. At the time he had been sure, but Time has chipped away at his confidence and he is almost convinced that it had simply been an illusion. The clever, wonderful result of life here. Can he call it life? Is that what this has become?

He thinks about Nagato. Konan. Warm in the makeshift smithy, trying to hold things together, or thieving and sorting, keeping her eyes peeled graciously for anything that can help her boys survive the winter.

He is killing himself. Construction results in nothing but absolute and indiscriminate exhaustion. He is too tired to eat at night. His bed is a stone that he just curls around while the rain continues to slaughter the land. Nagato keeps vigil, forcing food through chapped lips and mending a black, black burn as well as he can.

Sasuke cannot stop. He knows he imagined it. He _knows_.

But Sasuke cannot stop.

On the seventeenth day, at about two in the afternoon, his body finally quits. The beam of wood on his back, he is sure, is not a problem; he can't feel a thing. The rain, well, he is used to it by now. Just another feature of his life. The hot, stinging burn in his leg is nothing more than an old friend, always with him, always waving for his attention. Hunger is his sight and thirst is breath.

He collapses.

The logical part of his mind is piping up again. Typical. He's flat on the floor with a great plank of wood leaning spitefully onto his right arm and he finally decides to let himself know that what he is doing is folly. He will die here, now. Nagato will not have to bandage his burn tonight. Konan will only have one extra mouth to feed.

He will never, ever set eyes upon a set of eyes, locked away from this place, green as a water bottle in summer and bright as the sky.

He'll either lie here until he starves or he'll be shot until he is dead. It is reassuringly simple.

'Oy,' he hears, insistent and hissed. 'Come on! Get up!'

The architect? No. He died on day twelve. Sasuke had side-stepped his corpse silently and gotten on with things.

Nagato? Konan? They shouldn't be here, and he'll give them a good telling off if they are because he is determined to keep them out of it and safe and warm.

'Sasuke! _Get up!_'

It is his brother. Sasuke cracks his eyes open for a moment and sees him. Itachi.

Funny. He waited all this time to try and see the ghost again, and it finally decides to show up now, on his wet, muddy death bed. Only more proof that it is a hallucination, a product of delusion, a last-ditch effort at a memory.

'They're coming. You _have got to get up!'_

It surprises Sasuke that hallucinatons can touch. Can pull.

Can feel.

He forces his eyes open. He is being shoved to his useless feet by pale arms. The plank of wood is clankered to the side. Very short, very black hair. Eyes that belong to his own reflection.

_Impossible_.

'You can't be real...' Sasuke manages to get out as he is steadied on feet he still can't feel. 'It really can't be you.'

'It _is _me!' a very real looking Itachi growls out with a huff of exertion. 'But it won't be me for long if you keep flopping about on me. They're going to notice us if we're not quick.'

Thoughts still crashing in confusion, Sasuke falls silent a moment while the maybe-real-maybe-not-real Itachi mutters something to a shadow nearby. Then suddenly they are moving. Sasuke isn't sure how much of the moving he can claim as his own. He watches the support beside him, wondering at how short the hair on the head is. It is spiking in little tufts, still as thick and shiny as ever.

They have reached somewhere. Sasuke knows because the moving stops. The phantom brother is speaking again, not to him, and fidgeting with something that sounds like cardboard.

'Here,' comes his voice, annoyed, desperate. 'Take the whole pack. Let us in and keep watch.'

And then the rain is off his back and he is in somewhere he wouldn't describe as 'warm' but certainly not freezing and away from the shouts of the _Fang_ and the dying men and the wet, ridiculous bricks. For a second he can feel the woody, slightly scented air filtering in his lungs like a glove slipping onto a cold hand. He forces his eyes open hard and fast as he feels himself drop into a sitting position on something comfortable.

Itachi.

_Itachi is sitting with him on the bed_.

Ponytail savaged into a choppy shadow of itself. Face thin and tired and pale. Eyes condescending, disapproving, worried and loving simultaneously.

It is undeniably, _unbelievably_, his brother.

And he is staring.

'You might be a bag of bones,' Itachi is panting, clearly wasted by his recent movements, 'but you've still grown a bit. You're all arms and legs.'

There are little cuts and bruises on his skin. Rips in the lips that move and grey, dirty patches across his arms.

Sasuke realises. If he were to imagine his brother he would imagine him prime; full of life, clean, skillful and strong. Not nearly as emaciated as he is.

Not quite as awful.

It hits him, and without any other feasible options, he pulls his brother into an embrace. Hard. Tight.

'I've been trying to find you,' he muffles to his brother's back. 'Should have known you'd find me first.'

There is something akin to a bubble of laughter clammering in his chest. He still can't feel his legs but he doesn't care; he can feal the _real_ Itachi, tangible, beneath his fingers.

'You've always been so bad at looking after yourself that I didn't really have a choice, did I?' Itachi returns softly. 'Just dropping like that - you scared me half to death, Sasuke.'

His voice. It is so soft. Just as he remembers.

'Sorry,' he mumbles. 'But I couldn't just stop looking for you. I saw you nearly two weeks ago and since then all I've been able to think about is finding you.'

He pulls away from the embrace, close enough still to his brother that he is confident he won't just disappear.

'You're better than I am at taking care of things. It was always you making the last minute deals that put food on our table for another week. You've got a knack for surviving. So how did you end up here? Did they catch you? Where have you been hiding all these years?'

Itachi gives a mirthless sort of chuckle. 'If I've got a knack for surviving,_ you've_ got a knack for getting into trouble. I'll happily tell you where I've been, but first I need to fix you up. Look at the state you're in. You're a real mess.'

Sasuke bristles half-heartedly beneath his long black hair. 'You're hardly a picture yourself. Although...' he reaches into the thin cloth shirt draping his skinny shoulders. There is another shirt underneath (Konan; reliable as always) and another piece of cloth beneath that. He pulls at it.

'This might help.'

He doesn't mind the slightly cold sensation left behind by its parting. And once the hat is on his brother's shorn scalp, Sasuke almost feels like the whole world has suddenly been put right. Itachi is amazed at the sight of it.

The grey, floppy trilby.

'I don't know how you got this hat,' he adjusts it on his head, smiling in disbelief, 'but you clearly have your own story to tell too. This bunker is safe but not for long. I have eyes at the door but the guard who stays here is due back shortly. Do you know anywhere we can hide?'

Sasuke can feel awareness feeding back into his body. He is exhausted and exhilarated all at once. The burning in his leg is being replaced with the overwhelming desire to survive.

'Yes,' he says resolutely. 'I have a place. I might need you to help me walk.'

'How far?'

'A mile – maybe a little less.'

Itachi stands. Sasuke can see that the camp has already started taking a real toll on his body; after the initial shock of recognising his brother without his long hair, he is taking in the other changes more acutely. Limbs skinny, not slender. Face hollow, not strong.

Eyes that are sunken, but still alive. Still quick and sharp. That much has not changed.

Sasuke takes the mucky hand that is being stretched out and pulls himself, still wobbly, to his feet. He breathes out slowly, fully, forcing himself into 'ignorance' mode (_'My leg burns!' _Ignore it _'I'm so hungry!' _Ignore it _'There are dead faces at my feet.' _Ignore it) and noticing as he does so that he is the same height as his brother.

'Did you shrink?' he asks a little breathlessly as his feet find their place on the cold ground. Itachi laughs, the hat on his head making him look like himself.

'Foolish little brother.'

* * *

When sunset came, Naruto decided to dig in and write to Hinata. Shikamaru looked so horribly tired after the day's unsuccessful offensive that Naruto doubted he'd stay awake past meal time. Even that was a struggle sometimes; the thought of cold, strong onion soup and a chunk of hard, unbuttered bread wasn't one to relish. They only ate now because they knew their bodies needed sustenance. All pleasure had been eradicated.

Even the dugout was spitefully cold. Meals would be distributed by running officers (kids, conscripted out of desperation) in about half an hour and so Naruto knew he had some time to make a reasonable amount of progress in his letter while Shikamaru did what he always did: lay down straight on his icy matress and tried to remember what his body felt like beneath his freezing skin. Naruto could confidently speak on both of their behalves by saying they had never experienced cold like this. It wasn't wet, or blustery; the cold here was simply all you could really think about. An icy rain dried out, or a chapping gale paused momentarily to allow you your breath back.

Not this cold.

It was constant. Inside or outside, it was always the same. It created a sort of white glow behind your eyes that lingered while you slept and greeted you when you woke up. Naruto couldn't even imagine what warm weather felt like anymore; the arctic climate was snapping into his memories and even demolishing the warmth there. It was beyond comprehension, beyond time and beyond anything Naruto had ever known.

His one distraction was Hinata. Not that she was untouchable or immune to the effects of the landscape; rather, whenever Naruto picked up his pen to write to her, he saw her clearly in one of two scenarios. The first, and most common, he supposed, was her body, hewn across the eternal snow, hair spilling into a puddle of blood. Eyes open a crack but entirely dead, colder even than the world around them. Naruto imagined this was due to the amount of bloodshed that had become his reality. He still hadn't actually shot anybody but that was irrelevant. It wasn't so much what you _did_ out there as what you _saw_. Carnage was everywhere, unrestricted and frozen in unhappy symmetry. Here a limb, there a limb. So Naruto wasn't really worried that he was imagining some prophecy or somehow glimpsing the future; he knew it was his mind, attempting to work out the trauma of the day.

The first image, as much as he understood it, repelled him. The second blessed his heart.

It was as though he'd just turned around from staring at the blinding snow for too long and there was a funny spotting in his vision. And when it calmed a little, he could make out her silhouette, standing quite calmly in the snow. She was wrapped in the furs and coats of the enemy: deep, natural browns and minks. Her long, straight hair fell right down her back from beneath a fur hat and her hands, tiny and pale as he knew, were wrapped in rabbit-fur mittens. It was beautiful even in the patchy fuzz of his returning eyesight but Naruto favoured the moment he truly got his focus back most of all. Then he saw the flush of cold on her cheeks, the way it made her lips dark and bold. Then he saw her eyes, so pale and wide, laced with black lashes that caught the snow as it fell around her.

She looked like she belonged in the snow.

Naruto had always imagined Hinata to belong to the night. Her pale complexion and dark hair gave her an affiliation with shadows in the glow of the moon. But never, decided Naruto, never had she looked more at home than in the snow, wrapped in thick layers and giving him that expectant, patient look he loved.

It wasn't often he got to see it. He usually saw her dead. But when he saw it, he clutched at it, consciously making an effort to committ every detail to memory.

It was the image he forced himself to fold into when the cold and the bodies and the mess were too much. It was the image he used to comfort himself, like a baby nuzzling into the arms of its mother.

It was this image he decided to draw on this occasion. To send home to her. To let her know he was thinking about her.

The letter paper was thin and unsuitable. The pencil was half blunt.

It didn't matter.

* * *

We will not even allow him this little piece of sanctuary. Not even this little bit. We are cruel to him and want to push him to the very limits of his endurance. All for our own entertainment.

How much cold can the sun take before it melts into itself?

You don't know?

Ask the vulture. He's an expert on these sorts of issues.

* * *

Just as Naruto picked up his sheet of ragged paper the pumping, echoing clangs of shells falling bled into his ears. There was a long, almost electonic pause, in which Naruto heard the most delicately produced creaks and groans, like distant tunes through a window. Then, as Naruto made an instinctive dive toward the sleeping Shikamaru, the whole world seemed to shatter in an instant, morphing into dust and rock and crush. Then all were rushing for the exit to the bunker, flimsy and frail.

Not many people could survive the collapse of a building, especially those inside. Naruto and Shikamaru stumbled to safety, amazed at their luck and tottering on dizzy limbs while the dugout imploded. Shells still fell about them and they ran for cover, crawling under the shelter of all they could find: a bare tree, leaves long evacuated. They huddled together at the base, knowing their protection was as pitiful and skeletal as they were. They watched this world - yet another - shattering into pieces while they shivered, powerless, and so bitterly, bitterly cold.

They survived the night. Somehow. But neither Naruto's optimistic upward glances nor Shikamaru's frighteningly keen sixth sense noticed the red eyed Time vulture perched on the branches above them, silhouetted in ghastly rainbows and eyes as bright as ever.

As morning came, dark and not warm, the bird took off into the chilly sky.

He, as always, had somewhere he needed to be.

* * *

Kakashi read with vigour. Enthusiasm. Horror and excitement and pride and embarassment.

It was all in the diary.

Her love. Her sadness. Her shame and her loneliness and her successes and achievements and doubts and fantasies and memories and visions.

Sakura's soul was laid bare before his ageing fingers.

Whoever said 'a picture paints a thousand words' was wrong, decided Kakashi. They'd never seen the landscapes his daughter could ease onto the canvas with her words. They'd never seen the way her desires and hopes could forge a turbulent dawn; her sorrows a undular sea. No image could strike at his heart the way her words did. No colours could transport him so deep in her soul.

He wasn't surprised when she caught him at it. He couldn't put the thing down. He felt so strangely full of pride that a gift he and Anko had given had been put to such glorified use. He was so pleased that she shared his love of words; their lies, their truths and their maelstrom.

'What are you doing?'

Kakashi considered teasing her ('Sasuke with his shirt off, eh, Sakura...?') or consoling her ('I miss him too, sweatheart. We all do.') but in the end all he found he was capable of at that moment was offering her a warm, easy smile and the soothing words:

'You kept him alive.'

'Of course I did!' Sakura snapped as she stomped down the basement stairs to the table where he sat, clutching her treasure. 'And you read my diary! Without my permission!'

That raised a small chortle from him. 'How could I ignore him? He's been sat on this desk breathing at me ever since I got back here.'

'It's not a _he_, Father!' she exclaimed, seeming close to shameful tears. 'It's just a book! Pages and ink and leather, that's all.'

'Well you're definitely wrong there,' said Kakashi as he let her snatch the book from his hands churlishly. She stared at him, eyes glistening, cheeks twinged pink.

'He gave you some of his soul,' he said, all lightness replaced by genuine softness and affection. 'He gave himself to you and you put him in this book. On these pages. With this ink. And you wrapped him in this leather and watered him every day with these tears so he would grow.'

She was crying. Quietly, in a calm way that made Kakashi even prouder that he was her father.

'There's a living, breathing Sasuke in your diary, Piggy,' he said as he watched the tears roll serenely down her skin. 'One they can't take away.'

She was quick. Quicker than he'd imagined her to be. He supposed that showed how much he underestimated his daughter.

'And what about here?' she said quietly, each word difficult and lip cracking. 'In the real world - not in the fake, made-up, imaginary world of my diary. Do you think there's a living, breathing Sasuke?'

Kakashi watched her for a moment. His lips were pressed together and he felt like he looked; old. He turned his gaze to the ceiling.

'You know, there's a crack in the plaster up here. I really need to fix it. Wouldn't do to have you down here and the roof fall in on your head, would it?'

By the time he turned his sight back on her she was gone.

He hadn't even heard her leave.

The diary sat still on the edge of the table.

* * *

Nightfall. It comes early in the winter.

The edges of the sky are starting to darken by the time the two brothers make it to the secret smithy. There is still a little sunlight warring with the stars but it won't last long. The rain continues to fall insistently, blanketing the ground with darker and darker sheets.

In the instant that they open the door, Nagato looks a mixture of terrified, concerned and utterly shocked. He almost drops the small pot in his hands but manages to grasp onto it at the last while he hisses: 'Sasuke!'

The two stumble in, tingling in the heat suddenly swarming them. No introductions seem necessary as they sink before the fire.

'What happened?' Nagato fusses, running to kneel next to the exhausted pair. 'Sasuke, are you alright?'

A nod. 'Absolutely. We just need to rest a bit...'

Nagato watches as a man so similar and so different to Sasuke scowls. 'You're not alright. I want to look at your leg before we move. I've got to say, though...' He looks appreciatively around the smithy. 'You've done a good job setting this up for yourselves.'

He locks Nagato with eyes more piercing than his younger brother's. 'Can we stay here all night?'

'No.' Nagato responds instantly with a shake of his long, gingery fringe. 'The guard comes back at around five each day and we show what we have made. Then we head back to the bunkers and report for food a little later.'

'So we've got a bit of time,' Itachi muses. 'Good. I'm going to check Sasuke over while we're safe. He is apparently incapable of taking proper care of himself.'

The last is said in a manner of exasperated, forced patience, and Nagato feels obliged to chip in.

'Actually, I've been looking after his leg. You can blame me for any... uhh...'

Itachi frowns further. 'You've been forcing this poor man to tend to you, Sasuke? Even worse than I imagined!'

Sasuke, face glowing in the heat of the flames, keeps his eyes shut. 'Be quiet, Itachi. There are enough headaches here without me having to listen to you rambling on.'

'Foolish...' mutters Itachi as he shifts his limbs to allow himself to reach Sasuke's leg. Sasuke yanks his tatty trousers down to reveal Nagato's careful bandaging.

Nagato would have believed it all had Itachi not been peeling away the wraps of linen with a kind, graceful smile. Had his eyes not sparkled when they pierced.

Had he not been met with Itachi's sincere gaze while he unwrapped, and a very quiet 'Thank you.'

He nods a silent 'You're welcome' and is reminded of what achievement feels like. Success. Winning.

To Nagato, watching the brothers before the fire, victory has a sweet, mellow taste. He decides that he likes it.


	22. Brother Gaiden III

**Sherby A/N: Huge thanks as always to both my fantastic editor Janine, who has the eyes of an eagle and drops everything to edit, and my lovely loyal reviewers who keep me going. Shockingly quick update! Hope you enjoy...**

**...**

* * *

**Red Chapter 22: Brother Gaiden III**

_I have decided to stop dating my entries. At first I was looking for patterns in the figures (one week, one month, one year) but it is easier for me to stop counting. That way the days and the entries and the numbers all melt into one big long entry and I am hoping that in years to come, when I look back, it won't seem so very, very long. _

_I don't suppose I have made it easy on myself. I sometimes picture myself standing on the very tip of a rock cliff, facing out to sea. The man I love has gone sailing; on a voyage. It is exciting and adventurous and he will come back a hero, so I stand at the pinnacle of the cliff and I wait. I can see my dress, that of a plain, boring maid, billowing in the breeze like the sails of his ship. _

_I wait. And wait. And wait. I don't seem to need food or rest. The wind chapping my skin doesn't affect me a bit. I am a statue, erect and proud despite the clamour of the tide crashing on the rocks below. _

_But regardless of the pride, or the stillness, or the confidence... I know I have not made it easy. Because there are no guarantees - not a single one - yet I have guaranteed to myself that I will wait. I will become part of the rocks. I will become a lonely face in the mountainside. _

_Until the dream changes. Like it did last night. _

_I wasn't still. There was no wind. And the pointed finger of the cliff became the grassy fist of the Konoha river bank. It was a warm, slightly wet day and I was kneeling down on all fours like a cat, staring into the waters. _

_There was no sun reflected in the river; no sky or no clouds. I couldn't even see my own face._

_Just his. _

_He was staring up at me from beneath the surface. He looked cool and collected and the water was rustling through his hair like I remember my fingers doing. His eyes were half smiling at me and he looked simply like a portrait._

_I could feel myself moving closer, easing my face to his bit by bit. And I could distantly remember having similar dreams when I was younger, except then I always fell in with an embarrassing splash. Not this time; I slid in like I belonged to the water, and when it met the skin of my body it was soft like a human hand. _

_I closed my eyes and breathed out, and could feel the bubbles bouncing up across my face to the surface. And then I opened my eyes._

_And I was alone. _

_The water wasn't fingers any more. It was angry shouts, banging and howling against my summer dress. I screamed but nobody cared; all I could hear was this funny scraping noise like a throat not quite cleared. _

_Then I blinked and was sat in the basement, just like I am now. Crying, just like I am now. Father had come down and was scraping some mortar onto a trowl. Something about fixing a crack._

_I am here now. The crack in the ceiling isn't fixed yet, and sometimes I imagine the water of the river coming through to drown me and pull me into that lonely world again. _

_Where did he go, Diary? I know I ask that almost every time I write to you but..._

_I haven't made this easy on myself._

_Not in the slightest. No matter how many numbers (days, weeks, months) I ignore._

_But I wouldn't abandon my post for all the peace, or all the happiness in the world. _

_Me and my face in the cliff. Or me and my underwater nightmare. _

_They always end the same way._

_Me. At this desk. In this basement. _

_Crying, and swearing never to stop._

* * *

He is running. He cannot stop running because if he stops he knows the whole world will end.

The ground, so soft with rain, is slippery and unforgiving against the soles of his tatty shoes. Rain is jabbing into his eyes and causing him to squint. His chest rises and falls in a frighteningly concentrated effort to master his belting heart and his legs are mechanical, operated by some unseen puppeteer with the energy of a million men.

There is no bullet. No blood. Just running, and no choice.

It isn't cold enough for his breath to frost up in the air yet but for some reason he imagines it while he is running. Beneath the weight of escape and desperation and panic he can see the world fading around him and becoming the park he knew so well as a boy. The grass is soft and aids him. The sky is winter blue and no rain falls. His parents are walking, hand in hand, and chuckling at him as he goes.

His brother is watching him in the distance. There is a faint smile on his face.

He runs. He runs for his life, and his brother's, and the life of his past.

_He cannot stop._

* * *

Itachi stared down the barrel. It was sort of black and hollow inside. He didn't want to close his eyes because he knew he'd see Shiro's blood behind them, stained across his eyelids. So he stared. Hard. As the smoky-smelling thing was pushed against his sodden face.

The storm raged and above him a gutteral crack of lightning made its mark. Without thinking what he was really doing, Itachi thrust his hands upwards in the disabling light, wrapped his fists around the nozzle of the shotgun, and pushed.

It was all happening strangely slowly for him. Almost as though it were being etched into his reality by the stapling, stabbing fingers of an artist. The gun went off a breath after the lightning hammered. He felt something hard and silver and deadly skim across the tip of his ear and into the drowning air.

He was running.

Either more lightning was striking or more shots were being fired; Itachi couldn't tell. But grass was blowing up in chunks around him as he zig-zagged through the fields on his long legs. It truly wouldn't have surprised him if he were dodging the element itself, hurling to the ground from the black sky desperately trying to zap him out of existence.

The image of Shiro stopped him from shutting his eyes. Eventually, after hours and hours and _hours _of desperate running and dodging (surely, surely it couldn't be less), Itachi found himself face to face with a field of high haystalks. They were taller than he was and so he dove into them, hands parting them like a swimmer's hands cut through water. Small shifts of grain stuck to his face and got into his mouth but he didn't care; he just knew he couldn't stop because the lightning was still pounding and Shiro was still dead and his heart was still punching at his insides.

He ran straight into a _Fang_ guard. Pulled straight into a sort of body lock. Clammy fingers shoved straight over his mouth.

'Don't move,' said the guard. Itachi hadn't really got a good look at him but he sounded oddly confident, like an aspiring, mischievous student. 'Stay with me. I'll keep you alive.'

Every nerve in his body was suspicious and instantly stood to alert as the guard forced him to take a few steps forward, stalks brashing across his body like shackles. The guard's hand was salty and clammy and Itachi's mind ran frantically through every conceivable escape plan.

He didn't have time to enact any of them.

They were suddenly out of the haystalks and into the wet clearing of the surrounding fields. Faced by three heavily panting _Fang_ and endless reams of raining sky. Itachi's breath came heavy and loud through his nose.

'I want this one,' said the guard pressing against both his front and his back. 'He is fast and seems quite strong. I've been looking for an assistant.'

'You're joking!' one of the chasing guards retorted as he filled his lungs. 'The boss won't like it at all.'

'The _boss_ doesn't need to know!' insisted Itachi's captor. 'And if he _does_ somehow manage to hear that I've found myself a new sweep, I might be forced to tell him about the events in Hidden Rock that I was privy to. I tell you, I saw a few interesting things there. Bet the boss would find it _fascinating_, don't you?'

Itachi had the sense to remain still while his life was played with like a toy figurine. He had no idea what they were talking about but could sense the upper hand when he smelled it, and he knew that he already belonged to the guard.

'Fair enough.' Another of the three chasers shrugged, clearly out-manoeuvered in the darkness. 'No funny business, Yakushi.'

* * *

There are many things that Itachi will not discuss in detail with Sasuke. He knows Sasuke is a man now, and that he has seen his lot of horrors. It would probably do Itachi a lot of good to talk about it.

But he will always be Sasuke's older brother. And there are some portions, some fragments of Itachi's life, that shouldn't be shared with him.

His time in the service of Yakushi Kabuto is one of those fragments. Itachi will do anything - _everything_ - to ensure Sasuke never knows.

He glosses over it. Smoothly. And moves quickly on to talk about his journey to 002. But we know - and even Sasuke knows, in some small way - that there are, hidden in this tale, things that cannot be said. To be said is to be real. And to be real is to be inescapable.

However, you need no protection. You're a grown observer; and let's face it, there's a little part of you _dying_ to know more.

That moment - the one where you are truly honest with yourself - is where the vulture steps in, and takes over the letters, and, against Itachi's will and wishes, pulls you into a fragment of a memory treasured away like a bone buried by a dog.

* * *

He is lying on the floor of a small office. The room is elongated, with a number of exits: one leading to a kitchenette, one to a bathroom, and one to a bedroom. Officers are modestly cared for and receive more than the average troopers in their barracks.

Kabuto is in the kitchenette. Something is simmering and smells good. His stomach is juddering; he hasn't tasted proper food in so long.

'I saw the most amazing thing today, you know.'

He does not reply. It is always better to not reply.

'Do you have a younger brother?'

No reaction. Kabuto already knows this information. He is playing. Whatever is cooking is fizzled around in the frying pan. He lets the sound fill his ears.

'I'll tell you why I ask. I have been working on a particular job which involves the exhumation and extraction of old copper rail lines from beneath the snow on the western bank of 002. The new rail line into the camp is fully functional now and there is no need to keep the old lines as spare.'

Kabuto's voice is mixing with the sound of the frying food. It invades him, and he exhales, slowly.

'All the workers have to do is dig down to the lines and extract with the tools we provide. I hate the damned job; it's a real bastard. Hours of standing in the cold with nothing to do but watch people dig and pull.'

He doesn't know why Kabuto is doing this. The stone office floor is cold against his split lip. He is certain he is leaving a bloody smear.

'But there still has to be a supervisor. If they're not watched all hell will break. And as much as I hate the job, it won't last forever, and I want to make a good impression on my Superior. So at the end of every shift I pass along the work units and evaluate the amounts of copper accrued by each worker. It is a fair way of assessing their productivity.'

The food is burning.

'You're very quiet, Itachi.'

There is no concern in the statement. A simple comment. A hint of displeasure.

'Anyway, today, as I was examining the copper piles I noticed one of the workers had collected far less than most of the others. It really was a pathetic amount of metal. I think a child could probably do more. I approached him and asked "Why is this pile so small?" but before he could answer - he was a sickly little ginger thing - the worker next to him started talking to me - he was so _bold_, like the words were too loud for him to stop. He said they'd been sharing the same pile and all the rest of it - I didn't believe a word, and I should have killed him on the spot. Public and consistent discipline is the only way with these sorts of people. But I didn't kill him.'

He watches as Kabuto pops his head around the door leading to the kitchen. The smell of the food burning is making his stomach roll.

'Don't you want to know why, Itachi?'

He can hardly move. But he manages to lift his guilty eyes to face Kabuto and somehow the look conveys 'Tell me'.

Kabuto is delighted. 'I knew you'd be interested. This man, this young, bold man - I bent him over and flogged him. He thought he was going to die - once you've been there enough there is a sort of sour smell that you get used to in a Red, the smell of the man just about to die - but he bore me awfully quietly. His back was a mess by the end, but...'

He is quiet now, and when he speaks the words are almost lost into the smoking pan of the kitchen.

'He looked like you. And I mean... not just a slight resemblance, and not just Red, either. I've been in this long enough to know that Reds come in all ugly sorts of shapes and sizes. But it was his eyes... and his shape... and his skin... _everything_ about him screamed **_you_**_ at me...'_

The food is forgotten. Kabuto is approaching the prone man on the stone floor.

'I couldn't kill him because he reminded me too much of my assistant. My Itachi.'

He imagines this is supposed to be seductive. He can't really concentrate; he is aching too much from lying on the cold ground since yesterday evening, hoping the bleeding would give in eventually (_'Come on, blood, you're supposed to be special - isn't that what this is all about anyway...?') _and, far more importantly, this monster of a man Kabuto may be onto something here. He has no idea what has happened to his little brother - keeping watch started off unrealistic and ended as an impossibility - and so it isn't ridiculous to assume Kabuto is telling the truth. What's more - he is _hurt_, he has been whipped and is suffering in terrible harsh temperatures, digging up dead copper for nobody's sake.

Kabuto's attempted sultry vocalisations and pin-prick fingertips are lost on him. When it comes to his little brother, Itachi has always had a one track mind.

'Can you take me to him?'

Shock. A desiring smile.

'Such a _caring_ older brother.' He is touching his hair, running his claws through it wirily. 'You really are sweet. I am due a permanent transfer there in the next few months - just waiting on the paperwork. I can take you as my assistant to bunk with me. You'll probably have to work, but you're healthy; you'll be alright.'

A pause.

'But you have to _behave_. No more struggling or biting from now on. I'm sick of it. Do you understand?'

He swallows. The smell of the meat burning in the frying pan is a stench now, hot and smoking.

'Agreed. Take me to my brother, and I'll...'

He doesn't need to finish. The hands are already claiming their prize.

'Deal.'

* * *

'It was a long wait,' Itachi explained with a half smile. Sasuke and Nagato watched him, pale faces shimmering in the light of the makeshift smithy furnace. 'Kabuto's move order didn't come until about four weeks ago. It's quite a journey from the outskirts of Rain to here; I can see why he wanted to move here permanently. He was having to hole up in bunkers here for the duration of his shifts, and then return to his official quarters in Rain for the weekends. I wouldn't like all that travelling.'

'Why would they assign an officer who lives so far away jobs in here?' Nagato asked quietly, fidgeting with his own fingers. 'It seems such an odd way to utilise their resources.'

Itachi's smile grew. The heat in the smithy had returned some of the colour to his face. He'd tried his best to clean Sasuke's wound and now they were just sitting near the fire, letting it get some air before strapping the bandage (some cloth stolen by Konan) back on. 'That's just it - they're _low on resources_. They don't want us to know it, of course, but living with a _Fang_ officer you get to pick up bits of information not many others hear. They've had to ship more and more forces out to the fronts; the Fourth expected Cloud to fall over a single summer but it has lasted him out for years now, and it's the same in Sand. Water and Mist have been long overrun but pockets of resistance are causing problems and there is a greater need in all these places for extra bodies to throw at them.'

There was a pause. The thin trickle of rain made itself faintly known against the rooftop.

'They're losing,' Sasuke breathed, never taking his eyes off his brother. 'They're actually being beaten back.'

'I believe so,' Itachi countered, sounding typically logical. 'Kabuto wasn't the only officer shipped in here. My guess is that a number of soldiers have been requesting to transfer out of the camps - I doubt the other camps are much better than here, and they're not _all_ monsters. It must get too much, living here, with us, seeing all of this...' He gestures, knowing there are no words to effectively describe it. Nagato nods.

'We've seen it. Breakdowns. Uncontrolled shootings and rages. They can't last it out like we can.'

'Exactly. So they're letting the unstable ones out of here and shipping the fresh ones in. After a break, those who left here will go to the front. Not much of a problem if you're a little trigger happy out there.'

'They'll run out of guards eventually, though,' Sasuke said as Itachi reached for the bandage, already bloody and stained but the best they could hope for. 'They can't keep splitting themselves over camps and fronts and rebelling cities. They're not infinite!'

'That's why our primary focus should be on simply staying alive now.' Itachi wrapped the cloth tightly around the sickly skin. 'No heroics, and no stupidity. This place will be out of action within the year, if you ask me. And when it comes down, we want to make sure we're healthy and ready to move.'

He looked at Sasuke in a very direct, sharp way. 'Was it you two? Did Kabuto really see you both in the snow, pulling up copper?'

Sasuke stared back, trying to ignore the childish feeling that he was about to be told off. Nagato answered for him.

'Yes. I was ill. Sasuke covered for me.'

'And you have _more than _returned the favour, Nagato,' Sasuke cut in quickly.

'I'm glad you've been looking out for each other,' said Itachi as he finished tying the bandage. Sasuke yanked his trousers up irritably. 'I really am. But now, we have to be as pragmatic as we can. No being heroic or saying things out of turn to the guards or being..._bold_. Just keep your heads down and survive.'

* * *

Are they really, _seriously_, trying to make plans against me? Trying to beat the clock? Trying to outsmart Time itself?

_Who do they think they are?!_

I'm spreading my wings. I'm lifting up into the air and heading right for them.

**_I will not be made a mockery of. _**

* * *

Kakashi is staring at the crack. It is dark. It is a dead vein in the ceiling.

He has plastered it twice now. Even painted over it with a thick, insistent magnolia. But somehow, and he can't explain why, nothing seems to cover it.

To Kakashi, this feels almost supernatural. Worry breeds quickly in his mind. And looking up at that stubborn crack, Kakashi's mind begins to see.

* * *

Remember? He can see the future.

Poor Kakashi. He can see everything but himself.

* * *

'Father?'

Sakura has come down to see him. He is sure he doesn't look well. He has felt much older lately.

She stands next to him and looks up at the crack, its wide smile slitting the plaster. They both just stare up at it, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

And while Kakashi is watching the future that he doesn't understand, he can feel a past he had almost forgotten wrap its hand around his own. It was once soft but it is now calloused and hidey with years of work. It is strong.

His eyes see a train. Pulling into Konoha station. His daughter is waiting for somebody. She is in her uniform.

He doesn't know if he is seeing the past or the future.

It becomes fire. The memory. Fire and pages and pages of hard work destroyed with no funeral. He is at the book burning, and Sakura is holding his hand. The heat burns his face and he winces.

'I'm here, Father,' she says to him. He will always be taller than her, and he looks down into her eyes and sees a baby.

'Strange, isn't it?'

Her voice is odd. It is murky, like the smoke has plaited around it in the air and scrunched it into not quite being itself.

'Some things you can never cover. If we burn them, did they never exist?'

'If you bury a village,' Kakashi speaks softly, in a dream, 'who will know it was there?'

'You've buried that crack under two coats of plaster and a thick layer of paint.' Her voice is factual. Clinical. This must be how she speaks to her patients. 'But you still know it is there. Don't you?'

fire-smoke-burning-book-child-train-leaves- eveything is suddenly gone.

Kakashi is staring at the crack in the ceiling.

He is on his own.

The crack smiles again.

And Kakashi knows.

_Something is coming._

* * *

_'Snow is still white in the dark.'_

Shikamaru found himself thinking. He'd stopped, lately. He'd started to find that life was a little easier without the constant noise and chattering of thoughts. Not-thinking allowed him to get through his day relatively unscathed (mentally, at least) and he could simply let the thoughts run wild in his dreams when he slept, entering the world of blankness once again as soon as he opened his eyes.

It had been hard, admittedly. He had a very active mind and was used to letting it run all day like a wound up motor. It generated good things, most of the time, and truthfully he'd felt a little lonely when he'd finally made the decision to switch himself off.

Still. It had been good while it lasted.

For some reason, over the past days, his mind had been flickering. Before that it had been lying dormant in a sort of white silence but he'd been experiencing little flickers of thoughts behind his eyes, lighting up his brain brilliantly for only moments before lurking back into the darkness again. He couldn't really even grasp them for long enough to realise what they were about, but he knew the feeling that came with them well enough.

His mind was coming back to life.

He wasn't sure if he willed it or not. Of course he missed mulling over things and coming to conclusions and applying logic. On the other hand, not having to process the blood and the blue bits and the whole _place_ that he was stuck in was a huge bonus. He knew Naruto still thought and hadn't switched off like he had. Naruto was different. His thoughts were the ones that helped him sleep at night. Somehow he could use his thoughts to block out other thoughts; like some weird little thought hierarchy where he could just suppress the ones he didn't want and cling to the ones he did.

That was madness to Shikamaru. Surely it was better to erase thoughts entirely and just wake up when it was all done and finished, whatever the result.

He came back to clarity in the middle of a deep, blistering night. And he supposed there was nothing much he could do about that.

It was almost like a glimmering cloth had been lifted from the world. Everything before had been covered up nicely and even if he'd been tempted to peek, he knew there'd be trouble if he did so he refrained. He had no choice now. The sheet was gone and everything was horrifically apparent again. Just like it had been at the start.

They were walking. He did not know where. Naruto was next to him and they were plunging their feet, robotically, through snow drifts that came up to their thighs.

The whiteness of the snow really surprised him. Shikamaru wasn't accustomed to being taken by surprise. His mind was usually working hard to ensure nothing ever caught him unexpectedly. And he couldn't really say whether he found it pleasant or unpleasant to be shocked at how bright the snow looked in the comparatively dull moonlight. The fact that he had realised his surprise simply alerted him to the fact that his mind seemed to be functioning normally again.

Which meant, of course, that he immediately began to _think_.

He thought briefly about the dazzle of the snow in the dark, and then he thought about Naruto and that nasty head wound he'd picked up the other day.

'Naruto,' he said quietly as he ploughed his legs throughout the deep snow. 'How is your head?'

He didn't miss the look of shock on Naruto's face, clear enough in the silver moonlight reflecting off the snow.

'Better, thanks Shikamaru.' It came after a pause, tentative and wary. 'Are you holding up alright?'

'Yes.' Shikamau didn't waste any words. 'What's going on? Where are we moving to?'

Naruto didn't stop to speak, but kept walking, dragging each knee through the snow with a strange sort of grace. Shikamaru took the time to have a quick look around himself; there looked to be at least fifty soldiers struggling through the snow around them. They were all bones, with the whites of their eyes matching the snow staining their thin military uniform.

'I didn't think you were listening at the briefing,' Naruto chugged out. Shikamaru noted the fog that collected as he breathed. 'We're retreating to base camp. They finally gave us the order to leave the front.'

Shikamaru frowned. He realised that he couldn't feel his toes. 'What do you mean, 'retreating'? They're sending reinforcements, I assume.'

'Not that I've heard,' came the reply with a shake of the head to emphasise. 'I just know that we're pulling back.'

Shikamaru's mind fed on this information like a hungry beast, gluttonous and quick. He was reaching a hundred different conclusions within five minutes.

* * *

The main points he has concluded are as follows:

If they are retreating, they are losing.

If reinforcements cannot be spared to this front, they must be in use elsewhere, which means other areas of the war front are struggling too.

If they are retreating, the enemy is coming.

If the enemy is coming, the cities and villages will be at risk.

If the cities and villages are at risk, all the people he loves at home will be at risk.

If the cities and villages are at risk, _Fang_ will attempt to cover all traces of misdemeanour in order to negotiate more beneficial peace treaties with enemies.

'Covering up' usually involves utter and complete eradication.

* * *

Nara Shikamaru. Uzumaki Naruto.

It really does apply to both of them.

Once a FOX, _always a FOX_.

* * *

'Once we get back,' Naruto said with almost a hint of confidence, 'we'll need to do our best to get our pamphlets out as quickly as possible. We want as much evidence as we can get.'

Shikamaru nodded thoughtfully. 'Yes. Although we might be a little preoccupied for a while with keeping as many alive as we can.'

'We'll open our homes.'

'We've done it before.'

'We _can't_ just let them delete what they've done.'

* * *

Even out here, in the bitter black air and the desolate, white-framed darkness, they are both facing the fences. Swearing with all of their souls to rip them down.

Let's hope Time is feeling magnanimous. After all, right now he has somewhere else he needs to be.

* * *

The following three weeks that pass are some of the sweetest of Sasuke's life. There is still darkness in every corner of the room of his world, but when he looks up it is as though the broken string of a lightbulb (which he long ago gave up on) is flickering. Some of the shadows festering in the deepest recesses of his heart - shadows painted on the walls by the things he hears and sees and can't escape - are cowering and will soon be chased away as the glow stakes its claim in the blackness.

He sees Itachi every single day. Even if it just means sneaking off in that small bit of free time between the end of the work day and the time they receive their meagre rations; one minute is enough for Sasuke. As long as he can confirm his brother's existence each day with a quick word, a simple glance of the shoulders, then he is superbly happy.

He did not think it possible to experience happiness in this place. 002 is a prison not just for the physical body. Sasuke knows his soul is anchored here, amongst all the dead ones wailing in the mud. How could there ever be joy in such a place as this?

He supposes he must have come close; thieving raids deemed as successful with Nagato, Konan and Yahiko - they had brought a similar feeling to him, but he suspects that it was partially driven by the rebellious nature in him really 'sticking it' to the guards, and to the prisoners too weak to survive, and that _damned _vulture on the edges of his vision. He can probably admit that came pretty close to happiness. And he must have found some sort of quiet, deep satisfaction in his friendship with Yahiko - because otherwise why did it hurt so much when he was shot in the dust of a botched supply job? And, of course, there is no way he can deny the feeling that gurgled up inside him when the faces of three dear memories of his past appeared out of the night to try and save him. What he'd felt then had very definitely been sheer joy.

But none - _none - _of those come close to how he feels when he remembers that his brother is still alive. And well.

And _here_.

It is with a blissful, surprised sort of satisfaction that Sasuke allows his heart to fill back up again, as though those stirrings of brief happiness were leaks in the side of the beating walls, and now the floodgates have been creaked apart by his brother's smiling, gaunt face and his attitude that hasn't changed in the slightest and that absolutely ridiculous trilby covering his spiky shaven patches of scalp.

There is room at the top for more, of course, but even now, when he has finally allowed _hope_ to whisper into his life, he is cautious not to think about **her**. He promised himself, and he may have had his weaker moments when he glanced at her shadow or imagined the smell of her skin instead of the infinite rain, but on the whole he has kept his word and kept her _out_ of this place.

So Sasuke is completely satisfied with a heart half-full and a life where the shadows are being slowly beaten back by the light of a memory he has chased for so, so long. Hunger seems less demanding; pain seems less immediate. All bad things seem to be coated in the edges of the bulb's meagre efforts and somehow he can feel strength returning to not just his muscles but his mind. Until now he had not realised that he and his brother are practically co-dependent. Their lives are linked by their past and their genes and their shared, cursed blood. Once Sasuke scowled at his blood; abhored its existence and hated its properties. Now he values it - every single drop - because it connects him, undeniably, to his brother.

Who is alive. _Who is here._

He is not sure there are many prisoners here who wake up with smiles on their faces each morning. But he is one of them. He is not ashamed or embarrassed of the affection he feels for his brother, for the deep, understanding embrace they share daily as Sasuke creeps to Construction detail where Itachi is permanently based due to his connection with Kabuto.

For Sasuke, Itachi makes it as though everything is like it was. There is no 002. There is no Red or Leaf or dead bodies or dead friends or dead legs.

It is all just exactly like it was.

And that is okay.

* * *

It's horrible. Because even though you can't see _exactly _what is coming, you know me - and the vulture (which is, of course, me) - far too well to believe in any sort of happy ending. And how full he is only makes it harder for you to stomach.

But you will read on.

Leave him here! Stop! He is so happy; how can you, knowing what is coming, continue? If you stay here with him the rest will never happen; you can share in his perpetual joy and even make up your own ending.

But you won't.

Of course you won't.

Who's _really _the one with the feathers here? Who is _really _the one driving Time into the scene?

It certainly isn't _my_ eyes you're reading with.

* * *

On a particularly rainy afternoon in - (Sasuke had forgotten the months, or at least stopped paying attention), he was working away in the Smithy. Business had been less busy than usual (he couldn't believe he was in a position to perform a like-for-like comparison) but there was always enough to keep them ticking over until finish time. Nagato worked solidly and was quietly cleaning their limited tools, which Sasuke asked him to do each afternoon. Their business was reliant on the tools not failing them and basic maintenance did not cost a thing. He was watching a sheet of metal cool, edges glowing as red as his eyes as it calmed. It had already been hammered into position and once it was cool enough he could examine its shape and decide if he needed to rework it.

Itachi had been very impressed by his Smithy and had complimented Sasuke on his resourcefulness. Sasuke didn't think much of it; after all, Itachi was really the master resourcer, with guards he could bribe with cigarettes and rooms he could hide in whenever necessary. The Smithy had fallen to them through luck (and admittedly a bit of bold stupidity on his part) and had probably kept himself and Nagato (and even Konan, to an extent) alive and able to trade enough to eat more than just dry onions. But Sasuke wouldn't say he'd been resourceful in acquiring the business. Just lucky.

Still, the unexpected praise was nice and it made Sasuke value the safety the Smithy provided them each day. For so long now they'd worked mostly undisturbed, hammering out shapes and creations in the metal. Sasuke even supposed it was a sort of sanctuary for himself and his friends; a place where, even though they destroyed, they also built.

This explains why Sasuke was so surprised when Konan burst in one day, hair drowning on the edges of her pale skin and eyes glowing like a demon.

The door smacked.

'We have to move.'

Nagato and Sasuke blinked in uneasy harmony, unsure about this wild disturbance.

'What do you mean?' Nagato's quiet voice went first. 'What's happening?'

'They're burning _everything_!' Konan gasped, chest heaving. 'They're burning everything and killing everyone! We have to _move_!'

* * *

What?!

**_What?!_**

* * *

There was a shadow behind her in the doorway. Sasuke could see it with his red eyes. It had feathers and a laughing beak, and was glaring right into his soul.

He was on his feet before Nagato even had time to respond. The sheet of metal dropped with an echoing sob as he pushed past Konan into the rain. He had no time for his well worn coat.

She grabbed him. Her pale hand clasped his skinny forearm.

'We don't have time. We have to leave now.'

He snarled.

Like an animal.

Snatched his hand away like she'd burned it.

'Do what you need to.' His voice was like ground rock. 'I'm getting my brother.'

'We won't follow you!' she hissed bravely, desperately.

He was already gone, disappeared into the rain like fizzling steam.

* * *

He is running. He cannot stop running because if he stops he knows the whole world will end.

The ground, so soft with rain, is slippery and unforgiving against the soles of his tatty shoes. Rain is jabbing into his eyes and causing him to squint. His chest rises and falls in a frighteningly concentrated effort to master his belting heart and his legs are mechanical, operated by some unseen puppeteer with the energy of a million men.

There is no bullet. No blood. Just running, and no choice.

It isn't cold enough for his breath to frost up in the air yet but for some reason he imagines it while he is running. Beneath the weight of escape and desperation and panic he can see the world fading around him and becoming the park he knew so well as a boy. The grass is soft and aids him. The sky is winter blue and no rain falls. His parents are walking, hand in hand, and chuckling at him as he goes.

His brother is watching him in the distance. There is a faint smile on his face.

He runs. He runs for his life, and his brother's, and the life of his past.

He cannot stop.

* * *

Flames were burning at the edges of the sky as Sasuke approached the spot where he knew Itachi worked, each day, until he returned to Kabuto's chambers in the evening. Buildings were coming down and the world - the bleak, cold world that Sasuke had horrifyingly come to call 'home' - was blazing with raw, hot panic. Rain and soot was in the eyes of those who ran by him, stumbling toward some sort of half-hashed escape route and trying to avoid the sting of the _Fang_'s pistols. Cracks of bullets leaped in the air around him as he clambered over piles of scorching, rotten construction. The only other sounds were dull moanings and the insidious murmur of the rain, gusted about by wild, cutting winds.

The shots got louder, and Sasuke had the sense to stop. He skidded to a gasping halt behind a nearly-finished wall, just taller than he was, and gazed around to get his bearings. Everything looked so different in the fire. It brought ablaze the colours usually lost in the grey lacklustre of the rain.

He realised he wasn't at all far from his destination and crept along the walled structure, using his hands to assist him as his eyes stung with smoke. The air tasted rife and he bit down hard to stop himself from coughing. His feet faithfully kept him going and he eventually reached the edge of the structure, peering around the edge of the sloppy brickwork to get an idea of what was happening on Construction.

His heart slapped and struggled against his protruding ribs. His eyes squinted in a mad mixture of desperation, fear and fury. The soot stained his face. He was a wild animal, perched on the edge of an apocalypse.

What he saw made him stop breathing.

They were lined up. Maybe fifty yards from him. He had time to count rows of ten prisoners each, about six rows. Kabuto stood at the front.

He was shooting. One. Then not. Then one. Then not.

As the bodies crumpled, skulls obliterated into persistent, nauseous smoke, Sasuke frantically allowed his eyes to scan those standing.

One.

They were facing the wrong way - he could only see the backs of their heads.

Then not.

From skull to skull. One went right as he was staring. He bit the sick down and looked.

_'Look. **LOOK**! **FIND HIM!'**_

One.

Look.

Then not.

LOOKLOOKLOOK.

One.

He saw him. The trilby, that stupid trilby. He stood in the back row, taller than the majority. Sasuke could see his brother's shoulders flinch as each gunshot howled out.

He didn't know what more he could do. He'd found Itachi but could hardly dive in there and pull him out. He settled for trying to still the panic in his throat by counting the pattern. Counting the guard's shots and working ahead of him.

The small one, he'd go first. Then the one with the lighter hair would live. One. Then not. Then the really, _really_ skinny one with bones full of rotten skin, he'd go. Then the next man would make it.

He counted along, mumbling to himself as he did, until he landed on the trilby.

_Then not_.

He would be safe.

_Then not._

He was in the safe part of the pattern. Then not then not then not.

Trying to control his breathing, Sasuke looked upwards into the rain through his long, mottled hair for a moment of relief.

Saw the vulture perched on the wall above him. Comfortable. Confident. Secure.

Saw it laughing.

'Not this time,' he whispered, gazing right into its scarlet beads. 'He doesn't fit the pattern. You won't get us.'

He blinked.

The vulture was gone.

He looked back.

Just in time.

To see it.

Sasuke's world.

His world with a half-full heart.

His world which was just like it was.

His world with his brother alive, and _here_, and **_now_**_._

Sasuke's world - his _entire_ world - went white.

* * *

Look at what you have done.

**LOOK AT WHAT YOU HAVE DONE.**

**_LOOK. LOOK._**

Look.

Look at what you have done.

* * *

When he comes back he is outside a building. He doesn't know where.

It is raining.

Konan and Nagato are watching him. Sobbing.

Sasuke looks up into the sky. Feels it all hit him in the chest as he takes the first blow.

There is no sign of the vulture. Sasuke manages a quick snort. He doesn't hang around.

He takes a breath, through his nose. It burns. It is angry. He is alive.

He is alive.

Itachi is not.

He is alive.

_Itachi is not._

The rain is daggers on his skin. The world is sickness and lies and horror and exploding skulls and hearts teased and tugged and filled and emptied and broken into absolutely nothing.

He is alive.

His brother is dead.

Sasuke howls.


	23. Heroes Come Back

**Red Chapter 22: Heroes Come Back**

* * *

**09:00**

Hatake Kakashi never wore a watch. Except now he _always_ wears a watch. Religiously.

He has realised that for all those years, hiding from it was futile. Silliness. It was like trying to hide from the air around him; he could hold his breath for a while, maybe a whole minute if he was really determined, but in the end he always came back, humbled by his efforts to challenge the very roots of the life he had been given. No, Kakashi has come to accept that Time cannot be avoided; indeed, he believes he may have been mistaken for all those years after all.

It started at a dinner table only a few years ago, in the clutch of a very cold, snowy winter. He'd said 'I can't really afford to lose track of the time', like it was some monetary matter he was setting right as he wound the dusty cogs of his old watch. But even then he'd known it was bigger than he made out. Even then he'd known he was committing himself to a marriage with Time that he could never adulterate.

Since that snowy day, when white swans had been constructed by pale, loving hands in the ice of the basement, Kakashi has witnessed each and every happening of his world carve itself faithfully onto the face of his watch. It has seen it all: the innocent eyes of a girl becoming those of a woman, the emptiness of an uninhabited fugitive's bed, the bodies of children burned by bombs, buried in the sweltering sands of the desert, and the wispy curls at very front of his wife's hair growing silvery to match his own. Time knows all of his secrets, all of his intimacies and fears and wonderings, and it knew a long while before he put on that wrist watch.

He has made up his mind to try and see Time, that old enemy always on his heels, as a friend.

After all, he thinks on this bright, cold morning as he looks out of the living-room window into the morning drizzle, without Time he'd have no Sakura. No Anko. No Sasuke, Yamato, bookshop or broken leg. Without Time he wouldn't be here. None of it would have happened at all, and Kakashi thinks he has decided that the good parts just about equal the bad.

It is necessary to become a part of history in order to experience anything at all.

He is a gambler. A patch-work quilt. An habitual protector, a guilty thinker, a fool of a man. But these things Time has allowed him to have; allowed him to follow all the words, big or small, of his life, and allows him now to stand in the bright reflection of the morning sun and think about his life.

Of all the things Kakashi is, the most of these is grateful.

Hatake Kakashi is a grateful man.

He watches through the glass as a couple of neighbours hoist a Leaf Village flag, bearing the Konoha spiral ensignia, to their top windows. There isn't much of a breeze today so the cloth hangs there looking defeated. He knows a batch of soldiers are due home and the streets will greet them with glorious aplomb. But Kakashi, with his new friend Time, knows the war is lost. As crumpled as those flags flopping dejectedly from their posts. Celebration of the return of these soldiers must be restricted, he is sure, to a gladness that they are alive. There is nothing much more to celebrate.

Yes, Kakashi is grateful. Because despite the hard life he has lived, and despite the hard things he has seen, and despite the hard choices he has had to make throughout his years, he is still here.

When he was born he had nothing. And when he dies, he will have nothing. Kakashi is grateful - eternally grateful - for the things that have happened in between.

* * *

What is he seeing? What can it be that makes him muse this way?

You try to squash yourself behind his red eye, but all you can see is the back of his black eye patch. Nothing more.

* * *

His wife enters the room, mop in hand. He watches her expression recognise his mood, and she half smiles.

'Want me to come back later?'

The mop is dropping little driplets of water onto the floor. Kakashi watches it for a second, feeling every moment fly by, grabbing each one momentarily with indefinite, indiscriminate fingers.

'No, it's ok. I'll go.'

He crosses the small room gently, and before he leaves the room, gives Anko a quick kiss on her bare shoulder. He catches a slight softening of her expression as he exits and closes the door.

* * *

**10:00**

Anko watches her husband close the door delicately, as though it may snap. It clicks into place and after a pause and a quick sigh, she gets to work.

He will not know that she has waited for an hour outside the living-room, knocking at intervals, calling him every few minutes, knowing he needs his time and waiting for him to snap back to her world; the world of feeding their hungry needs and doing everything possible to keep busy and keep working.

Wherever he goes, Anko knows he cannot simply be pulled back.

An hour is a reasonable amount of time to give him, she imagines. She spends her life rationing and dividing and sharing out. How much water do they have left for the week - is there enough to mop? How far will this loaf go: one more meal, two, three?

How many minutes should she leave her husband in his daydream before pulling him back to life?

Over the years she has asked herself this many, many times, but knows she will never find an answer. A man like her husband, so predictable in so many ways, remains an enigma to her. All she can do is knock gently at the door leading to his awareness and wait for him to come back to her.

And he always comes back.

Anko thrusts the mop against the floor and sweeps it around in expert motion. Sometimes (and she would never, _ever_ tell her husband this, although she suspects he may have seen her at it once before) she imagines she is young again, and waltzing with a local schmoozer. She has always had the limbs and grace to be a dancer but she chose her reality and would never take it back. Imaginary mop-dancing suits her just fine; so she dances.

She twirls around the room, toes sagely stepping over her partner's handle and avoiding the already damp spots on the floor. Sometimes she catches her reflection in the shimmering patches and it makes her chuckle at herself.

Anko knows - and she knows that everyone _else_ knows - that she has a crispy, bristling exterior. But when she dances like a young woman again, she reaches inside and touches the warm places in her heart, the ones that care for fugitives and scold so gently and wait patiently for husbands to come home from memories.

She likes being softness wrapped in sterness. Better than the other way around.

As she finishes her final spin and thanks her partner, Anko glances out of the window into the street. The folds of her long skirt swish about her shins and feel full of life as she gazes.

There are soldiers parading down the street.

She places her partner against the wall brusquely (back to reality - she really doesn't have time for niceties) and darts to the front door. It is a cold morning that she invites to fling itself into her home but not without sunshine and a little weak rain at the edges. She steps out, wraps her arms about herself like a shawl, and watches.

They all look so tired. There seem be perhaps, at first glance, fifty or sixty soldiers marching in tandem. She remembers them leaving; how their arms were so much sharper and their salutes so much crisper. _'These poor men,' _she thinks._ 'They need a rest, not a homecoming parade.'_

She scans the crowd discreetly as her mind becomes full of the woman who _is_ still young in her life. As much as she never really rated that blond boy Sakura used to waste her time with, Anko had warmed to him, and finds herself searching for his sunshine face in the rows of soldiers.

But he is not there.

As the final, thumping rows of boots with limbs parade past her, Anko slips from her front doorstep and across the small street to a neighbour, who has a drooping flag hanging from her front bedroom window.

'Oy,' Anko greets in her usual abrupt fashion. 'Not many of them left, eh?'

The neighbour, a middle-aged woman with a square frame, nods in agreement. 'I heard a lot of them went straight to hospital. Frostbite and the like.'

'What regiment is this?' Anko presses, eyes training on the retreating backs of the exhausted men. 'Where have they come back from?'

'Oh, I don't know the details,' the woman says as she starts to shuffle back into her home. 'But I believe these brave men have returned from Cloud.'

That confirms it for Anko. Sakura had told her a while ago that Naruto - her stupid, loving friend - had been conscripted and was to be deployed to the Cloud front. Anko now knows that he is either still in Cloud, buried face first in the terrible snows she has heard so many rumours about, or he is home, not in the parade so in the hospital.

She is swift - always has been. She glides across the street and gives Kakashi a quick holler to let him know she is dropping by the _Hatchlings_ buildings; Sakura is sitting an exam today, and will be completely unaware of this regiment's return to town.

Some things cannot be disturbed. She knows that. The silence of her husband as he takes his little hours here and there to look into the pool of his past, or the little family of swans in the basement, their copper silhouettes still gleaming in the untouched room.

But some things - final exams, for instance - are worth disturbing for the sake of certain pieces of information. And when it could very well be life or death, Anko the dancer is certain she can scrape together the money for a resit.

* * *

What a revolutionary. If only FOX had caught her a few years earlier. Time has never known a woman glare at him so brazenly in the face and simply exude 'I don't care what you say!' the way that she does. The life and love in Anko makes his heart race.

How sentimental of him. What an old sap.

He knows it will all end soon.

* * *

Anko runs through town. There is an urgency to her heels and the dancer is gone, eradicated in the need of her daughter. It is not long before she arrives at _Hatchlings_ premesis.

_'Here we go again...'_

Her small, practical shoes click as she hammers her way through sterile corridors, stopping briefly to ask a surprised secretary which room the third year nursing exam is being held in. She doesn't bother asking for directions; she'll be there soon enough if she moves. Her head darts left and right as she smoothly takes in the printed number of each room. She finally arrives at the right door and pauses for a quick, prepatory breath before throwing herself into the room and into character.

Slam. The door slaps into the wall.

'HARUNO SAKURA!'

It is not hard to spot Sakura. She is the only student with rosy hair. Anko doesn't bother regstering the shock on her daughter's face, or the way a funny sort of hope sparks faithfully in her eyes.

'How many _times _do I have to tell you, Pig!?' she spits, purposely ignorant of the invigilator's mild stutters. ''I am SICK of your behaviour! Do you have any idea what you keep putting myself and your Father through?'

Sakura has the sense to look disturbed. Anko doesn't know if she is pretending. 'M- mother, I-'

'_**NO MORE EXCUSES PIG!' **_she bellows, striding through rows of pale faced students. 'This is the end of the line!'

She yanks at her daughter's arm and pulls her up, stumbling and protesting numbly, from her seat. Anko is pleased; her performance is so good that the invigilator isn't even prepared to question her as she drags her student out of her final exam and slams the door behind them.

Out in the corridor the air feels cool and quiet. Anko pauses for a second and pulls in a deep breath through her nose. She takes a quick moment to reflect on how proud she is of her daughter. Only years ago Sakura, wild and tempestuous, would have stomped up a storm, throwing accusations of educational sabotage in her face. But now she stands quietly, expectant, of course, but patient and silent.

She wonders, in the moments before she speaks, what has taught her daughter such patience. It is certainly not her own doing.

'The soldiers from Cloud have returned.' Her voice is quick, like a kingfisher pulling prey from the water. 'They paraded past our house. Your friend wasn't there with them, but apparently any wounded soldiers have been sent to the hospital straight away.'

All patience is dropped and Sakura is immediately running down the hall, exam and confusion and Anko forgotten.

Anko blinks a few times.

And then strolls back along the corridor, heading for home.

* * *

**11:10**

Sakura flies.

Luckily the hospital isn't too far away. It would be a fifteen minute walk but at the rate her feet are moving Sakura covers it in five minutes dead. She revels in the feeling of the sunshiney wind tumbling though her hair. The feel of her soles pounding against the quiet ground.

Despite her worry and anxiety, Sakura feels like she is finally d_oing something_. For her- for now - that is enough.

For so long now she has been so useless, floundering in memories she can never bring to life and a loneliness almost impossible to eradidcate. The basement has kept her trapped in the past, despite her doing so well in her studies. If she can find Naruto, she will be pulling herself steadily along the chain that connects her to that better time in her life, that time where she was not so lonely and not so useless. She will be moving forward by moving back.

She arrives at the hospital and takes no time to stop and gather her thoughts. She knows this hospital as well as she knows the layout of her own home. She ceases running, for the sake of the rules - but her walk is bouncing with energy and her head rolls around scanning each patient she sees.

* * *

Anko.

Sakura.

How alike they are.

* * *

After about ten minutes of frantic searching (and two doubletakes at blond soldiers wrapped in their beds) Sakura takes a moment to catch herself up. Take a few deep breaths. Focus for a second.

She leans against the cool corridor wall. Everywhere are soldiers, and the hospital is chaos. She has seen the days when regiments return and pour their wounded into the hospital's mouth, causing it to gag momentarily while it struggles to swallow them all. But, ultimately, they will all be swallowed, received with loving hands and clean beds and blissful medicine.

If she had not been trapped in an exam hall, Sakura would have been here to receive him.

She scolds herself. She does not even know if Naruto is dead or alive. She should not feel guilty for something she could not control.

But she does.

After gathering her thoughts together she decides to go and check the patient in-list. That would have been the most sensible thing to do initially, but her desire to simply _move_ had sent her reeling. She pushes herself away from the wall with calmer, heavier hands and begins to walk.

At the end of the corridor stands Nara Shikamaru.

She has never been particularly good friends with this man. He has drifted in and out of her life sporadically and lazily. But the sight of a familiar, lost face brings a huge grin.

'Shikamaru!'

He turns his attention to her and recognition flashes on his features. 'Hello, Sakura.'

His reply seems more sober than she had imagined but she doesn't care; she has learned not to trust her own imagination. She walks to him, still smiling, and stops just short of a hug,

'It's good to see you again,' she greets. 'Have you just returned from the Cloud front?'

'Yeah,' he responds in his usual monotone. Sakura examines his face. He is thinner, she can see it, and there is something unusual there, that she can't really place.

'You're not hurt?'

A shake of his head. How long and sagging his ponytail is! 'No, I've been pretty lucky. Couple of bumps and scrapes but nothing serious. Just the way the dice rolls I guess.'

'Yeah," she drifts, mind crawling over his words and examining them, letting her thoughts turn back to their focus. 'Listen, I'm happy to see you, Shikamaru, but I'm really loo-'

'He's just through here.'

Sakura's world hiccups. Everything sort of jolts up and down like it's been kicked. A hot, stony feeling settles at the base of her stomach.

Whatever logical part of her brain that isn't momentarily stunned manages to splutter out: 'Naruto? He's alive?'

Shikamaru gives a small snort and Sakura is reminded of how he used to be. Her brain can't really process everything that is happening. The corridor suddenly looks a lot brighter.

'Yeah,' Shikamaru offers her a sort of half grin, and takes her hand. 'He's alive.'

They walk around the corner into another corridor and into the first room on the right. After working here for so long Sakura had thought she was accustomed to the sterile, clean smell but it hits her suddenly and she has to swallow. Shikamaru, clad in his uniform and still looking a bit dirty, steps quietly despite his heavy boots.

'Hey Naruto,' Shikamaru pokes his head into the room. 'You have a visitor.'

Sakura peeks around the doorframe, past Shikamaru's long dark ponytail and into the bright room. It feels strange being a visitor to this place, a little uncomfortable. But once she sees the man in the grey sheets, sitting up, limbs appearing to be intact, damage looking minimal, that same old smile pasted on his face, all discomfort is lost.

_'Naruto.'_

His eyes sparkle in the sunshine breaking through the glass. His hair is unkempt but still as bright as she remembers and he bears a wad of cotton strapped to one side of his forehead.

She embraces him before he can speak. His body relaxes into the hold of her arms. The sun is warm on their backs.

'Naruto...' she smiles, squinting her eyes shut. 'You're really back.'

'Of course I am,' he says quietly into the crook of her neck. She can feel his breath moving the strands of hair that have fallen loose from her short ponytail. 'Not coming back was never an option.'

They pull apart just slightly, fingers still searching for each other and grasping the fabric of each other's clothes.

And Sakura suddenly remembers every detail of their friendship: every dynamic, every word.

'You _idiot!_ she quickly bites out. 'I can't believe you managed to get yourself sent out there. And you come back with what looks to be a broken brain. Not that it will make much of a difference to your capacity I'm sure. What did you think you were doing, volunteering for such a stupid place? I've heard stories, Naruto, about that front and the people who died there. What the he-'

'Sakura.'

She stops. She has to. His voice.

It is so different.

Where is the life? Where is the radiance and bounce-back she is so accustomed to? Curious and suddenly inexplicably anxious, Sakura fixes her gaze on his face, still tanned but a little paler than the norm.

'I have to tell you about some stuff.'

* * *

**11:34**

Shikamaru takes this moment to leave the room. He knows what Naruto has to tell Sakura. He doesn't need to hear it.

The conversation involves:

FOX.

Shikamaru.

Hinata.

Naruto.

002.

Water bottles.

Konan.

Nagato.

Yahiko.

_**Sasuke.**_

* * *

He instead decides to pick up another visitor for Naruto, to repay him for keeping him alive in the snowy hell of the recent past.

Bringing her here will not come close to a repayment.

But Shikamaru owes. And Shikamaru is determined to repay.

* * *

So he heads with determined, steady footsteps, to the lavish streets on the wealthy side of Konoha. There is a house there he knows well. And a woman he has missed.

A girl he recognises as a younger sister informs him that she is visiting their cousin. Their 'Red-loving idiot' of a cousin.

So he heads to the other side of town instead. He is tired and his feet still raw from all the walking and relentlessness but he knows he has a message to convey.

Paced steps lead him to the large prison on the east side of the village in just over an hour. The day is warm despite the thin trickles of diamond rain and Shikamaru has broken into a light sweat by the time he arrives at the entrance to the huge building. He notices the time as he steps into the reception and waits for the attention of the receptionist.

12:48.

The receptionist is a kindly, older woman with thin wrists and a look of living just above the bread line. She tells him that visiting hours are almost over and only one authorised visitor is allowed at any time. He asks her simply if she can pass on an urgent message to one of the visitors. Of course she can, she says. Her eyes are soft and a grey-blue; Shikamaru can see her looking his uniform up and down in a mixture of respect and hate, but her obvious natural kindness is telling her to ignore the fact that he is the army and ordering her to be helpful.

'Thank you, ma'am,' he says with a polite smile. She nods to him and he takes a seat in the square reception.

He watches the woman ring a bell, and a _Fang_ guard appears. The receptionist, with her well-kempt but simple hairstyle and flashing spectacles, passes on the message quietly and presumably directs the guard to the correct cell.

Shikamaru waits.

It is less than two whole minutes before _she_ bursts into the reception through a heavy wooden door, face flushed berry and hair longer and darker than he remembered.

'Shikamaru!'

The most natural smile he can remember splashes across his face and his teeth grin at her as he gets to his feet. 'Good to see you.'

She is upon him; she always was so giving with her embraces. Shikamaru finds himself selfishly breathing in her scent and allowing himself a moment of serene satisfaction at her small, pale, _strong_ arms wrapping around his shoulder blades.

'I've been so worried!' she is whispering, and he is sure he can feel tears soaking through his regulation military shirt. 'I'm so happy you're back.'

He sighs inside. Time to stop being selfish. He has news to deliver. And in a way he feels lucky to say this to her, like an angel bearing divine instruction.

'We're both back, Hinata.'

Her face finally unwraps itself from his shoulder, long hair slipping back to reveal her beautiful eyes. How strange to see the moon in the middle of a sunny day.

'Oh... Sh-Shikamaru... where- but Neji- I-I...'

He gives her another smile, gentler this time. 'I'll go see Neji. I wouldn't want to cut his visiting time down. You go to the hospital. Ask for him at the reception there. He won't admit it, but he is _desperate_ for you.'

She blushes deeper, harder. Shikamaru is a true gent as he takes her tiny hands from the material of his uniform and pushes her away.

'Go on, Hinata. I'll be here later. Go see him.'

Her eyes are flashing like stars. Another moment and she is gone, leaving only the echo of her footsteps and the scent of something good but unidentifiable behind her. With a sigh, Shikamaru turns back to the receptionist, who is smiling from her seat.

'May I go and see Neji now, ma'am?'

The receptionist's gaze is full of quiet joy. 'Of course, Sir. Oh...'

She pulls out a basket from beneath the reception counter, and Shikamaru identifies the glorious smell that Hinata left behind.

'Would you like some bread first? That young lady bakes us a batch each week. It really is delicious.'

Shikamaru blinks, smiles, and reaches out his hand.

'Sure.'

* * *

**13:50**

Hinata tries to walk across town. She really, _really_ tries.

But in actuality, Hinata _sprints_ across town.

She is flushed and out of breath by the time she arrives at the hospial and has the common sense to take a moment and compose herself before entering. At this rate - sweating, gasping for breath - she imagines she may be mistaken for an in-patient! She uses a puddle to check her reflection. The flush is lessening a little, the unkempt hair easily smoothed with a couple of expert strokes and soft fingers.

_'When?_' Hinata asks herself. _'When did you start caring what Naruto thinks of your appearance?'_

Her reflection answers by silently pointing to a ruffled piece of hair that has escaped her until now. Frowning at her sudden, unusual vanity, Hinata fixes her hair until her reflection is satisfied and then enters the hospital.

The next parts are simply a sort of heady dream. She is wearing a snug white macintosh and her fingers are fiddling with the belt. Her flat shoes make little noise on the floors as she moves, directed by the kind nurse on reception.

She had always expected her heart to beat harder in these moments. Imagined that her breath would come so quick and her cheeks race to blush. Instead, everything feels cold and nervous; her heart is so still and her breath calm after her dash.

The walls of the corridors loom upon the edge of her vision and she pushes forward determinedly, only interested in one floor number, one room number, one person.

A blush of pink dusts past her in the whiteness of the hall. Part of her wants to stop at the smell of fresh, confused tears that glisten in different angles with joy and heartache, but she cannot. The stillness of her heart drives her on a straight path, an arrow headed for the light of the target.

Suddenly, she is there.

At the room.

In the doorframe.

At the bedside.

And Hinata's heart beats again.

* * *

**13:57**

Naruto takes a long, slow breath, closing his mouth and forcing it through his nose. It feels cold.

His fists are wrapped around the bedsheets in a death-lock. He is chewing back the trembling of his lips. Sakura has left, grateful and joyous and shattered. It is news that broke his own heart; why wouldn't it break hers?

He closes his eyes for a second and is immersed in a world without sunlight. All the dark things that he has seen, battled against, cried over, are lumbering at the edge like zombies, raised perpetually in his unforgiving memories and eager to feast on any happiness he has left. The stars in his mind are miserable in the night as he thinks on his time in Cloud, his time watching soldiers freeze in the angry snows, his time in FOX, his time coming face to face with the sufferers of this nation, his time planning and succeeding and failing and wasting.

He orders the tears to stay still. To recede. To do anything but clamber out into his sunshine life. He can't let them. If he keeps everything he saw in this dark, star-less world it is contained; it is fake. It is safe.

Naruto opens his eyes. The clouds shift.

And the stars are outdone. Entirely.

By the moon.

His lips move before his mind can even catch up.

'Hinata.'

There she is. The woman he sketched, over and over and left in the dead ice. Just as he remembered - no, better. Hair glossier. Cheeks pinker. Eyes paler and more beautiful.

No sketch, buried like a skeleton in the chambers of Cloud, could match her.

She walks steadily to him, letting her footsteps balance and right her. There is a small chair beside his bed; her slender body pours into it and her hands reach out for his own.

Her head bows, and Naruto cannot fight the tears as her lips find his fingers.

'You're here...' she is whispering in a voice so tiny he can hardly believe it. 'You're here... this is real...'

He lifts his hand, clasping her fragile fingers, his moonlight, the one who chases all of the darkness away.

'Even if it's not real...' he says as he raises her hand to his heart, slowly moving her closer, 'it's enough for me.'

Her forehead bumps into his lightly and he presses his nose against hers.

'You have kept me alive every single day, Hinata,' he says quietly, blue eyes capturing her pale ones like water wrapping over the crest of a wave. 'You've been with me always.'

She nods, dark hair tangling into his. 'And you've been here w-with me.'

Her trembling warms his heart. She is so strong beneath it.

'You-you are...' Her voice is sacred, like layers of silk draping across his ears.

'N-Naruto... you are so... s-so **precious** to me!' she stutters, her heart too big for her words. He manages a laugh.

'You don't understand,' he looks at her as seriously as he can. 'Without you, Hinata, I'd be dead. Every day you saved my life.'

His lips near hers. He can feel her tears pressing into the skin on his face.

'_You_ are the precious one, my Hinata.'

* * *

**16:01 **

Visiting hours are declared over after many quiet smiles, gentle embraces, and already the beginnings of plans being sown into the ground. Hinata can hardly believe the turn her life has suddenly taken as she obediently leaves the hospital with the promise to return later.

The ward nurse, of course, thinks she means at 20:00, the next allocated visiting spot. But over the years Naruto has taught Hinata the art of sneaking in through windows, and Hinata will be arriving at precisely midnight so they can discuss their plans away from the prying ears of potential eavesdroppers.

As Hinata leaves the hospital the sun is starting to go down and the rain is a little misty. Unable to return home just yet (to that place of immense priviledge and murderous, ungrateful attitudes), she decides to take a walk around the village in the dying sunlight and enjoy the gorgeous feelings in her heart that make her think things are starting to mend.

She has an exam to study for - nursing finals are due next week. But a week is plenty of time for her to get a little control over these bubbly feelings and focus on her work. She may even be able to cram in a little time with Sakura - after all, they've done that before, and her family really seemed to appreciate the big basket of bread and cured meats and cheeses she gave them as a thanks for letting her into their home. And Sakura is the best in their cla-

Sakura.

_Sakura._

Sakura was supposed to sit the exam today. The class had been split, right down the 'h' surnames.

_But Sakura had been at the hospital. And Sakura had been crying. _

Hinata's heart, so full of joy, opens again, and without a moment's haste she takes off toward _Tengoku _street.

* * *

Sakura is sitting outside on the pavement when Hinata arrives, out of breath and dishevelled. She looks up briefly in a half hearted greeting before returning her gaze to the ground. She is holding something - Hinata squints to see it. In the ebbing daylight it is gleaming weakly; a small bird, Hinata realises, made of copper. If she looks hard enough she can see the little red jewel of an eye flashing her way.

Hinata sits down. And suddenly feels very guilty for holding so much joy in her veins when there is still so much to do.

'It's good to see him again,' Sakura says rather mutely, not taking her eyes off the little ornament in her hands. Hinata smiles.

'Both of them. We're so l-lucky that they have come home to us.'

And then there is silence between the two of them. For at least ten minutes. Hinata finds a dusty patch in the road to focus her gaze on. She uses the tip of her brown shoe to push little patterns into place.

They are both thinking about the one who has not come home to them.

Eventually, Hinata lifts her head; her mouth is fully, stutteringly prepped with words of comfort and hope. But they are all dashed by the sight of two stumbling rows of silent tears on Sakura's pale, fine skin. She is perfectly motionless, gaze still focused on the little copper bird (is it a swan?) in her hands. The tears are the only thing moving, and Hinata isn't even sure if Sakura knows she is crying. Her face is like a rock monument.

Hinata's own face is not so easy to tame. She feels her lips scrunching at the sight of somebody else's sadness, juxtaposed so perfectly with her own joy.

Her guilt manifests. 'I'm so-so sorry, S-Sakura...'

Sakura's eyes don't move but her lips part slightly. Her voice is surprisingly calm.

'You have nothing to be sorry for.'

'Y-yes I do!' Hinata curses her stutter as it grows worse. 'I'm so sorry th-that...'

_What? Sorry your lover has returned and hers has not? Sorry she's still alone in the past and you're already planning steps into the future?_

* * *

She really is one in a million, isn't she?

Such a shame.

* * *

Sakura's face is crumbling as Hinata tries to find the words on her heart. It only fuels Hinata's guilt further.

'I'm sorry!' she says almost angrily. 'I'm s-sorry we couldn't b-bring Sasuke ho-home to you!'

At the sound of his name, an illegal utterance, Sakura's exterior finally collapses. She drops the little copper bird she has been clutching and buries her face in her hands. Her pink hair, fallen from her controlled ponytail, crumples up in the pockets of space between her fingers. Hinata can suddenly smell tears and years of private grieving.

So she does all she can think to do. She cries with - and for - Sakura, and places a gentle hand upon her back.

'It's stupid,' she hears Sakura choke out, the words wet and difficult through trembling teeth, 'because I'm so happy - I _know_ I am happy - that Naruto and Shikamaru have come home to us safe. But... but all I can feel... all...'

She sighs wretchedly.

'I'm sorry, Hinata. I'm sorry that I feel so angry and jealous and...'

The two girls lean their heads into each other's shoulder. The last, weak fingertips of sunlight touch their backs as they enter into another silence.

Sakura breaks it, this time. 'Do... do you think he is still alive?'

Hinata scans her heart for the truth. Can she say it? A sigh precedes it.

'W-well... when I last s-saw him... I mean, he d-didn't look _too ill _o-or anything...but then there w-were guns a-and someone _definitely _went d-down...'

'Was it him?' Sakura's voice is blanking again, and she is staring, with her head still on Hinata's shoulder, at the ornament in the dust of the road.

Hinata pauses. 'No. He h-hid with us for a moment before m-making a run across the guards' line of sight... he created a-a distraction so we c-could escape...'

_The truth, Hinata..._

'T-there were more shots... but I-I don't know... I d-didn't see...'

Sakura is smiling. Her eyes are still so wet but she has managed a wobbling grin.

'Our boys. Why do they always have to play the hero?'

_'Just like last time... just like last time with the rocks in the street...'_

_**'Nothing ever changes. But you've got to get out. That's the only thing that matters now.'**_

_'We came here to help! We didn't come here to run away!'_

_**'What have I told you about playing the hero? Get out of here. Spread the word about this place. It's the best you can do for us now... I'm going to run across to that other corridor. I'm hoping they'll follow me. Sneak down to the end of this alley and take a sharp right. You should come out close to your tunnel.'**_

_'S-Sasuke... We can't just l-leave you again-'_

_**'You never left me before. And you won't be doing me any favours by staying. Both of you, go. Now.'**_

Hinata smiles as the memory of the rain that night settles on her.

'He wasn't p-playing the hero. He really did -save our lives. We had no idea what we were get-getting ourselves into until w-we heard the gunshots...'

She pulls her head from Sakura's shoulder and looks firmly at the little swan.

If there is a-_anyone _who can make it alive in th-that place, it's Sasuke.'

She pauses one final time, knowing her words are dangerous but enboldened by the memory of a brave sacrifice. Sakura is watching her now, green eyes still glistening.

'And if h-he is still alive... we _will _find him.'

* * *

**16:43**

'Are you _sure_ you don't want to come?'

The girls on the pavement, who have sat quietly for a while now, are disturbed by Yamato and Kakashi as they walk out into _Tengoku _street from the house with the blue door. Sakura catches the tail end of their conversation.

'I'd love to. Really. But Anko... you know what she's like...'

Yamato, full and healthy looking, gives a knowing chuckle.

'She wouldn't complain if you brought home a plate full of winnings. Come on, Kakashi - you've always been an ace at poker.'

Sakura meets the gaze of her Father, which has been on her since stepping out of the house. She knows instantly that he can see her tear-stained face.

'Not tonight, Yamato. But say hello to the boys for me. I think my gambling days are over... for the moment at least.'

Yamato chuckles again and then saunters past the two young women sat on the pavement. 'If I win big tonight, girls, I'll buy you a nice treat. Think of what you'd like.'

Hinata nods politely and Sakura smiles at Yamato's silliness. 'That'll be the day, you old soak!'

He pulls a mischievous face at her before walking merrily off into the dusk; Sakura can hear him whistling faintly to himself. There is a rustle of fabric to her left and she turns to find her Father crouching beside her. He places a firm hand on her shoulder.

'Everything alright, Piggy?'

Sakura steals a quick glance at Hinata before looking back to her Father's eye and saying, quite honestly, 'I think so.'

'Good.' He stands and stretches on his long legs. Since his injury he has developed a hardly perceivable limp, which Sakura has added to the list of things she adores about her Father. She watches his shadow stretch in the dying light.

'Hinata, Anko has finished cooking our dinner, so I'm afraid we'll be going inside now.'

'Of course, Mr Hatake.' She stands gracefully, long hair gleaming in the darkening air. 'I'm sorry if I have k-kept Sakura late.'

'Not at all,' Kakashi reassures her with one of his trademark crinkly grins. 'I appreciate all you've done for us. And the bread basket you gave us last time you visited - well, that was really something special. Thank you.'

'I-It was nothing, Sir.' She bows her head graciously and turns to leave, but throws one more quiet, shy glance at Sakura from beneath her fringe.

_'We __**will**__ find him.'_

Sakura sees a promise in those pale eyes.

Smiles.

Waves goodbye.

* * *

**17:04**

Dinner is served. The Hatake family share meal of roasted onion soup and a loaf of bread for dipping (slightly hard by now but nobody is complaining). It tastes delicious and they wash it all down with a glass of cool water.

This is the life Anko strives for. That Sakura can't move forward from. That fills Kakashi with gratitude.

They chat, over dinner, and for a little while Sakura imagines everything is like it was just before she began training to be a Nurse. A time before Reds, before the War, when she and Naruto would spend hours gazing together into the waters of the Konoha river and the most she had to worry about was Naruto trying to sneak his way into a cheeky childhood kiss.

Those days. The days before it rained.

'How was your day, Sakura?'

Her Mother's voice is as hard as it always was. It will not change,

'Good,' Sakura responds as she swallows a hunk of thoroughly soaked bread. 'I'm so happy to see Naruto back in one piece.'

'You don't look happy, ungrateful Pig.'

Sakura pauses. Swirls her soup around in the bowl before biting back a sudden anger and replying calmly: 'He's not the only one I'm waiting on.'

Father looks at her with a sympathetic, wise eye, but Mother is less gentle.

'You shouldn't spend your life waiting on somebody. It's a waste. You're a talented young woman, Sakura. You have a lot to give in your own life. Don't give it away to a slim possibility.'

Sakura can hardly help the smile from pulling at the edges of her lips. She quickly scrapes down the rest of her dinner under the patient gaze of her Father.

'You're right, Mother. I have study to do tonight, as I will be re-taking my exam next week. May I be excused?'

Mother stares at daughter.

'Are you going down to the basement?'

Sakura suddenly realises she has grown wiser. Somehow. Somewhen. She can finally understand her Mother.

'I've been studying down there for goodness knows how long now. I'm not about to change my habits.'

Anko smiles. 'Good girl.'

* * *

**17:32**

'Don't you think you were a bit harsh on her?'

Anko is clearing the plates to the sink and Kakashi is wiping the surface of their table with a damp cloth. She smirks at his question.

'You nanny her too much. Sakura is very strong. Just like her Mother.'

'She was crying earlier today,' Kakashi answers quietly, wringing the cloth out over the sink. 'You don't see that side of her.'

Anko tosses the first of the bowls into the basin. 'You don't _see _what I see in her. There was fire in her eyes when I challenged her to give up on him at the dinner table.'

She sighs, pausing in her scrubbing of the dish.

'You're her Father, dear. You see the tiny girl who needs you to protect her, and that is perfect. You are right to see that. But I am her Mother. And do you know what I see in her?'

Kakashi does not answer. Anko reads that as a cue.

'I see myself. A girl who would never give up on anything she has put her mind to. You saw her at the table - my words rolled off her like rain from a roof. She is - and I think always _will be_ - desperately in love with... with that boy. Nothing that you, or I, or anybody else says will ever stop her waiting for him and giving her whole life to the tiny chance that he may one day return.'

Anko scrubs the bowl again, hard.

'I'm so proud of her for sticking to her word.'

'What word?'

A smile. The running of water. Calloused hands working to clean, and never stopping.

'The word she made to herself. The promise she forced herself into the day he left our house. It can be a very hard thing for a woman to love, Kakashi, and love whole-heartedly.'

'Is it hard for you?' His hands encircle her waist. She simply carries on scrubbing.

'No,' she says with a hint of a grin in her voice. 'I have always waited for you, and I suppose at the time I found it hard. But it is not. There are much harder things. I don't find you hard to love.'

'Good,' he breathes onto her neck. 'I don't know what I'd do if you did.'

She is definitely grinning now, such a rare, beautiful thing, as he turns her from her work to face him.

'Oh, I'm sure you'd manage, darling.' Her eyes are twinkling. 'You've got a real way with women.'

* * *

**18:57**

The basement is not as cold as Kakashi expects as he walks down its steps. He can usually see Sakura at her desk from this height, but she is absent, which means she is not writing.

He can guess where she is.

He reaches the level floor of the dark room, lit only by a candle on the desk, and immediately looks to the bed. She is not there, and he is mildly surprised.

A clank to his far left catches his attention, and he turns his head, needing his whole field of vision to be facing that area and not be obscured by his patch. His sight settles on Sakura rooting through the stacks of paint tins and brushes in the far corner.

'I have an idea, Father.'

'What is it?' he says as he approaches her back. The smell of paint is nostalgic. Sakura's eyes are tingling.

'I thought that maybe you could help me practise my words again. Like we used to. You know.'

She tosses him a dry paintbrush, which he catches deftly. Before he can say anything else she is lugging two large tins of paint, which she has opened with a small chisel (he's seen that before, in the white, terrified eyes of a fugitive close to capture). He shrugs his shoulders good-naturedly at her and moves to one of the open tins.

'Let's take turns.'

And so they go. They write, in large, messy letters over old words and old lessons. Kakashi thinks of his tiny daughter, years before, painting her words and growing. Sakura thinks of two men: her Father first, with his patient voice and gentle corrections, and the absent, dark-haired Red the other, who watched her long ago with his criminal's eyes as she practised, unaware of the horrifically fragile nature of their set-up.

The words make no sense to Kakashi and every bit of sense to Sakura, proficient and talented. She giggles at his mis-spellings; he purposely writes his letters backwards sometimes, like a child, just to get a laugh out of her. He slaps some paint on her bare arm and she returns by painting a line down his nose, like war markings.

_Calcaneus. Calcaneus. Carved ham._

_Palpebra. Palpebra. Pea Soup._

_Jejunostomy. Jejunostomy. Jelly._

'Father!' she pleads with a wide smile, 'You're like a waiter writing out a speciality board!'

He laughs at her and flicks some paint at her hair. She squeals a bit and ducks.

'Okay,' he says, suddenly looking mysterious. 'I have an idea.'

Sakura wipes some paint off her lip. 'What?'

'I will write a word on the wall, and then you have to write the first thing you think of underneath it.'

She places her hand on her hip, unconscious of spoiling her clothes with paint. Kakashi can see his daughter through the woman before him. 'Okay,' she says, looking ready for a challenge. 'That sounds fun.'

* * *

I am watching them through the window. You'd think they'd have put a barrier up or something after the last time someone spied on them through this fickle little piece of glass, but maybe they're determined to not have any more secrets.

Not like any of this matters any more.

* * *

The words go like this:

_Nurse_

_**Me**_

_Soup_

_**Still hungry?**_

_Sunshine_

_**Naruto**_

_Calcanium_

(a giggle)

_**Calcaneus!**_

_Eyepatch_

_**Father (of course)**_

_Mother_

_**Anko**_

_Childhood_

_**Sand**_

_Exam_

_**Simple**_

('Cocky, aren't we?')

_Swan_

_**Family**_

_Family_

(a pause)

_**Perfect**_

_Red_

(a longer pause)

_**Tragedy**_

_Chisel_

_**Paint**_

_Words_

_**Freedom**_

_Sasuke_

She blinks. Reads the messy, dripping word again.

'F...Father, I don't...'

He nods to the wall with his slim paintbrush. 'Last one, Piggy.'

She swallows. Her fingers pulse around the handle of the paintbrush.

Slaps a slash through the name on the wall.

Sakura faces her Father boldly.

'I'm not playing any more. This is finished.'

She drops her paintbrush into one of the tins. Kakashi can see the tears in her eyes. She turns away, hoping he won't see them, and moves to the empty bed. He watches her collapse onto it and bury her face in the pillow. Perhaps it still smells of him. Kakashi doesn't know.

He moves to the wall, and writes. His writing is not tailored nor his words designed to suit.

Sakura has her face covered. Kakashi thinks she is crying. He admires her strength and courage and all of her. He finishes his text and then moves over to her.

He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, at her feet. The little family of swans have been reunited at the head of the sleeping quarters.

He nudges her.

'What?'

He nudges her again, harder.

_'What?!'_

A final nudge brings her sullen, tearful face from the depths of the thin pillow. Her hair is tatty and her eyes dim as she scowls at him.

'I've told you, I'm not playing any more Father.'

'Neither am I, Piggy.'

He points to the wall, and Sakura reluctantly follows his finger. Painted below the scratched out word is another, written in her Father's scruffy, ill-educated scrawl and still gleaming in the candlelight.

_**Waiting**_

Sakura stares hard at the paint for a moment before turning back to her Father with an emotional mixture brewing on her face.

'You mean I'm waiting for him? I already know that...'

'That's not what I mean,' Kakashi answers quietly, 'not completely, anyway.'

'Then what?'

Kakashi takes a deep breath, slowly.

'We are _all_ waiting for him. You, me, your Mother, and his friends. Ever since that moment when he left us, we have _all _been rooting for him.'

* * *

He's right! says the vulture. Even YOU!

The patchwork man with the patchwork eye misses nothing. Not a heartbeat.

* * *

'We can't _wait_ for him to come home to you, Piggy,' he continues, feeling Sakura's gaze on his face. 'We want you to be reunited and have the life you deserve. I know you love him, and I know it's hard - but I want you to take comfort in something.'

She nods, tears threatening to toss themselves onto her cheeks. Kakashi places a hand on her bare foot and squeezes it.

'Wherever he is,' he begins, quietly, 'whatever he is doing, if he is alive... _**Sasuke is waiting for you, too**__.'_

Sakura lets out a choked sort of tiny sob, and her Father rubs her foot while she takes his words in. The tears roll out, tempered with a strange feeling of serenity that she may not be the only one waiting. Not the only one stuck. Not the only one missing the other.

Sakura falls asleep with the loving hand of her Father, sage and devoted, clasping her foot. Wrapped in the bed of her absent lover.

Breathing the scent of words that unchain her caged-bird heart.

* * *

**23:49**

As midnight approaches, Kakashi eases himself from the bed. Sakura is bundled within the covers, face squashed comfortably into the pillow. He gazes fondly at her tired breathing before moving quietly around past the desk (where the candle has burned itself out) and onto the basement stairs.

He is sure that they will all be okay in the long run.

Kakashi reaches the top of the basement stairs. Slips quietly into the house, towards his sleeping wife and warm bed.

Click. The door closes.

* * *

**00:00**

Silence.

* * *

**00:30**

Silence.

* * *

**01:00**

Silence.

* * *

**01:15**

Silence.

* * *

**01:30**

Silence.

* * *

**01:32**

The bombs hit.

And the world ends.

* * *

**02:14**

Sakamoto Kaito is good at his job. He has spent years in the _Shelter Spot _corps and knows a good raid shelter when he sees one.

When he gets the call out for a large, devestated area in the working class sector of the Leaf Village he is already awake. He doubts that anybody could have slept through the explosion that has split the night in two.

Before bombs.

After bombs.

He assures the messenger he will be out shortly and pulls on his uniform, taking a moment to rub the arms of his shaking wife, still in bed, huddled under the duvet as though that thin, flimsy sheet could ever protect her from anything.

He is told to go to _Tengoku Street_. The epicentre.

Something stirs within his memory. A blue door. A kind woman and warm summer tea.

A messy, dark, _deep _basement.

He remembers.

_'It's far too small to act as a shelter... solid enough, of course... would probably survive a blast...'_

Sakamoto Kaito wonders if he will save a life today.

* * *

**03:28**

It is chaos.

I am flying over, stretching my wings, having a little look at the destruction. Everywhere is smoke and fire and rubble. There are hundreds of people helping out: _Fang_, civillians, soldiers. They are pulling desperately at the scabs of the old world and hoping some life may bleed through.

I have watched three bombs fall across Konoha this evening. Two fell in the poor district, one smacking hard into _Tengoku _and the other hitting the Shibuyama prefecture. You know it well. A house there once harboured a criminal in the attic.

The final bomb clipped the corner of the hospital. That may be the greatest tragedy. Maybe not.

If I fly in close I can taste the scorched oxygen as it singes my nostrils. It reeks of agony and fiery debris. The night is so black despite it all, and my wings blend right in. Nobody would spot me unless they knew what to look for.

But my red eyes, coals in the furnace, see all.

They see a familiar man hunting through the corpse of a home he once stood in. He is covered in mud and has already pulled two injured people out of the crushes of houses in the past hour. Two bodies have been removed from this one. They're all being lain to the side in a vain, desperate attempt to show some sort of respect.

He is used to the smoke billowing at his face. He simply covers his nose with the crook of his arm and gets on with it. He really is hopeful for this one; I can tell. He is working with purpose.

He must have heard her. I certainly can.

'Help! I'm stuck! Can anybody hear me?'

He is following her voice like an angelic light, fixing his strength on it and soon enough, after much heaving and sweating and pulling he unearths a gaping hole and somehow, a set of stone stairs, still standing.

The dirty, pink-haired girl is staring up at him, frantically. In one hand she is clutching a small ornament and a book. She is stood at the top of the stairs and has been using the handle of a paintbrush to chip away at the collapsing plaster above her.

I watch him reach in and she wraps her fingers around his strong grip. She clambers out

on trembling, unsteady legs and enters with a weeping gasp into the new world of the morning.

I watch her green eyes, the brightest thing I can see for miles, take in the fact that her whole world has been eradicated. Her fingers twitch and tremble around her two precious remnants of a previous life. She sees the smoke roaring into the night, angry dragons with hot red tongues. She sees that there is nothing left of her street, the world she has walked for so many years.

The house with the blue door on _Tengoku_ street has been flattened.

Anihilated.

Terminated.

She reaches to the man who pulled her from the basement and tugs frantically on his sleeve. I can hear every word.

'My Father! My Mother and Father! Are they here? Have you found them?'

And before he can answer, the girl with the pink hair sees their bodies. Two chips of silver in the moonlight.

I watch her stagger to them. Touch the Mother's arm. Take in the still face.

And then, with all her breath storing up inside her like a knot, she drops the precious artefacts, relics of her previous life, to the ground.

And collapses, in utter silence, over the sleeping figure of her Father.

The gambler. The patchwork quilt. The grateful.

The one with the past stuck in his eye, who let the future in with a click of a door handle.

The one who paints words and brings smiles and mock-salutes with her in the crushing glare of the inevitable dawn.

Her Father.

I watch, ruffling my feathers a little, as she settles upon his chest. I think she might be trying to imagine some breathing back into his body. And it touches my heart.

But I am Time. I only bring; I never take back.

What is is what must be, and I cannot ease the silent, desperate, _hopeless_ grief of the young woman whose reality has been, piece by piece, pecked into ruin.

* * *

A few days later I am flying over the scene; I haven't really travelled far. I can see the spot where the blue door used to be. And, if I look very, _very_ closely, I can two small things.

Forgotten. Left to die with the rest of the street.

I pick them up.

One glimmers and glints. Reminds me of me. The other is weighty with years' worth of thoughts bursting from the pages.

I carry them off into the daylight, barely noticing the light skin of rain rolling off my back.

I have a long way to go.

Other places to be.

Might as well enjoy a good read along the way.


	24. Freedom

**Red Chapter 23: Freedom**

* * *

You are there again.

You are back.

You will never leave.

Hold your nose.

Hold your breath.

Here it comes.

* * *

Madness.

The world around them is absolute madness. All they can smell is ash and fire. Explosions rock through not-too-distant buildings as the rain of the grim night sky drowns them all. How impossible; a vortex of hot, weeping flame, howling at the taste of all the unjust deaths in the soil, encased in a solid wall of wet, black sky, pounding down and mixing with the ash to become a sludgy stain on any skin left.

* * *

Look at you. You don't even know where you are anymore. There is so much grief that you don't know which way to turn. There are too many dead, too many scenes. How can a whole family be erased? How can a whole group of friends be killed off one by one, all of them, leaving nothing but eye sockets? Bad coincidence? Stretched imagination of some twisted being?

_You have to understand._

_This, what I tell you here, what I show you now, is __**nothing**__ to what it really was. _

_**NOTHING.**_

That doesn't leave us with a lot of hope.

Does it?

* * *

In the midst of it all, with dark, wet patches staining her face, like a tribal warrior woman defending her family, Konan is _determined _to get them all out alive. Her hair, short and jet in the apocalyptic glow of the world around her, sticks to her scalp. Her back is still straight and her limbs still unharmed.

She will do her part.

She has brought them - carefully, sneakily - to the edge of the camp. Along the way they have raided the bodies of _Fang _guards crumpled in the melee. There are a lot of angry Reds out there and not all of them are as helpless as they might seem. She encourages her companions to ignore the bullet wounds and simply pull off the clothes - 'They won't need them now. Take them - take all that you can.'

This is how they - Konan, Nagato, Sasuke - have come to the fenced-off edge of their world dressed in dirty, ill-fitting uniforms, with mismatched boots on their feet and badges on their lapels that they did not earn. Konan and Nagato have each picked up a small hand pistol, too (though neither of them really knows how to use a gun).

They are close, now. So close to the exit. They can see it through the night rain. The fire is at their backs.

Konan isn't sure they can make it.

Sheltered as well as she can be from the dreaded gaze of any roaming guards, Konan peers around the corner of the building they are currently crouching behind. They are about thirty metres from the huge metal gates at the entrance of 002, currently wide open, gaping into the free world beyond. There are a few guards about but no patrols or large groups, and they look panicked, limbs roving in haste as they desperately try to establish their place in this wrathful new society.

She turns back to her comrades, gulping in air from the wet heat all around them. Nagato seems so small and thin in the soldier's uniform draped over his frame. He has stolen a cap; it looks ridiculous but what does that matter now? He is half leaning against the sheltering structure, knees desperate to give way. His hands are fisted, tight, white, in the cloth of the shoulders of Sasuke's jacket, stolen from a dead guard and thrown about his arms desperately. Nagato's fists, Konan firmly believes, are why Sasuke is still on his feet and with them.

His face is pale. Paler than the moment he saw it happen. Despite their better instincts Konan and Nagato had crept along behind him in when he sped to the construction site only minutes before.

They saw everything.

Pulled him away.

Got them back to the Smithy.

His colour has not returned. And his eyes - Konan is so worried about his eyes. They watch the ground, unable to lift, open but not really open. In the steaming, terrifying redness of the atmosphere they look almost grey. She wonders where all of the colour has gone.

She isn't aware that a Red's eyes can change when their heart is broken. And if they do - why didn't hers change after Yahiko?

No time to think about that now.

_'Come on, Konan! You've got to move!'_

'Right,' she says through chattering teeth, and then she says it again as though to reaffirm herself and her existence in this maelstrom of a moment. 'Right. We're going to have to make a run for it.'

'I don't think,' answers Nagato instantly, glancing briefly at the shell-shocked man in his grasp, 'that we'll be _running_ anywhere.'

She does love Nagato. She really does. Despite his fear he is calm in a moment like this.

'Okay. We will walk, then. We'll walk across the clearing as if we're just guards on a regular patrol - running would only make us look more suspicious.'

Her mind is nasty and whispers to her that they already look suspicious; three worn, battered fugitives in their clown costumes trying to run from the circus.

'So we walk.' She tries to wrap strands of confidence around her voice, for Nagato's sake as well as her own. She doubts that Sasuke can even hear her.

'If anyone approaches us, Nagato, we will say we've got an injured soldier and we're going to get help. It probably won't be believed but it might get us a few more moments to escape, and every second counts.'

Nagato nods his concurrence. There are streaks of wet ash down his face, shadowed by the brim of his thieved cap.

'When?' he asks quietly, grasping Sasuke's shoulders a little more tightly. Konan peers around the corner again; feels the mud sludging beneath her stolen shoes; feels the rain soaking through her jacket and shirt and revealing her treacherous shape. She looks with red eyes boldly into the night before them and summons up what is left of her courage.

'Now.'

* * *

The three musketeers. A walking disaster unit. A tragedy waiting to happen.

Surely.

So they walk.

It is wobbly and awkward, and both Konan and Nagato feel too weak to act as much of a support but they do it anyway. They don't have a choice. They live in a time where weakness can't be an excuse.

Behind them, the sounds of the chaos rock the night. The whole camp is a boat in a wild sea storm, bending and bowing with every towering wave. Explosions whistle through the air, cutting through the smoke and flame. Konan does her best to put the sounds behind her _behind her _and focuses on the weight in her arms and the gate inching closer every second.

She has always expected it to be so phenomenal. That moment of escape. She has always thought it would arrive - admittedly she'd hoped it to be sooner rather than later - but now she is here she is surprised at how quickly the transition from being prisoner to being free slides by.

She is before the gate.

She is after the gate.

And that moment - the one she has savoured and focused on so hard to get her through freezing nights and exhausted days and bones starting to show through skin and friends shot dead in the dust - that moment seems so horrifically _bland_. No fanfare to celebrate their great, daring escape. No smile erupting on her lips, fighting through cracked skin. Not even a feeling of noticing anything but the gates pass by her.

Konan receives her freedom. And is bitterly disappointed.

She can feel herself welling up a little under the ordinariness of it all and she scrunches up her face, not wanting any tears to escape into the soot. They continue to stumble along, the three of them, Sasuke in the middle, Nagato on the right and Konan on the left, conjoined by shoulders and quivering limbs.

'Konan?'

She blinks hard a few times before acknowledging Nagato's quiet voice.

'Yeah?'

'We're out.'

Nagato sounds as underwhelmed as she is.

'Are we?' she says tiredly to him, leaning forward to catch a glimpse of his face. 'I hadn't noticed.'

He manages a smile, through the sweat and grime on his skin.

'Yes you had.'

* * *

Stopping was, as usual, not an option. The limping, pitiful trio of fugitives continued on for another mile or so, not saying much, keeping to the shadows of the stumps of once-tall trees lining the roads. All was cut down. All was destroyed.

They carried on until Konan decided that she didn't _care_ if stopping wasn't an option; they were stopping and that was that. They found a small, well-sheltered area off the road, a sort of circle of stumps where bushes and scrawny shrubbery would provide them at least a little protection from the rain and from the eyes of anyone who may find them.

They sank down onto the wet, muddy soil gratefully, and the real fatigue their adrenaline had been fighting off finally set in. Konan rested her back on a slim tree trunk, ignoring its twigs and spikes pressing into her skin, and just allowed herself some time to breathe and catch up on her thoughts.

They were out.

Free.

Unceremoniously, underwhelmingly, _free_.

She felt it a little more this time, like the word had wriggled into her bloodstream and was travelling around under her skin, poking at places and trying to get a response. Freedom, leg! Freedom, arm! Freedom, cursed, bright eyes!

As it began to come close to even starting to sink in, Konan threw Nagato a real, full smile. He was watching her, always.

'Hey, Nagato?'

His stare didn't alter. His eyes, deep salmon and dark, retained their focus beneath his cap.

'Yes?'

'We're out.'

They knew, between the two of them, that it was not a moment of celebration. They hadn't defeated a thing. They were not conquers or victors or winners.

It seemed that _out_ was the only way to say it.

Besides, how could they celebrate?

Konan looked over at Sasuke.

_How could they celebrate?_

The air stunk of distant smoke, leaves and mud as she forced herself to move; to crawl on her skinny knees and bony hands to where they had lowered Sasuke to the ground. His hair was so heavy with rain that it covered his head like a black blanket.

She couldn't find his eyes. They were there, of course, still open, still blinking... but she couldn't _find _them.

'Sasuke?' she said quietly as she settled in the soil with him. There was no tree at his back but he was sat upright, knees bent awkwardly beneath his skeletal frame and stolen jacket. 'Can you hear me, Sasuke?'

No answer. Konan swallowed as she searched for any acknowledgement that Sasuke was aware of her existence. She reached out and touched his face, feeling sorry that she had to get more dirt onto his already filthy pale skin.

'Oy... Sasuke... _Sasuke..._'

Still nothing. Just those eyes, looking more grey than red, staring down at the soil and a face not even flinching under the nearness of her breath.

'What do we do?' she asked Nagato as he joined her in front of Sasuke. 'It's like he's not in there...'

'Maybe he's not.' Nagato's words made Konan want to cry. 'Maybe he went somewhere else for a while... it might all be too much...'

Konan relaxed her shoulders in a heavy, sad sigh.

'Let's get some sleep,' Nagato suggested quietly. 'He might be okay after a while. We'll have to wait and see.'

Konan watched Sasuke a moment longer (daring him, _daring him_ to look at her, to respond, to do _anything_ than stare at the damned dead ground) before turning away and crawling back to her tree stump.

'I'll take a watch,' Nagato muttered as he settled into a comfortable sitting position. 'I'll wake you if anything happens.'

* * *

The problem is, Nagato is so tired. _So tired. _

And when a vulture's feathers brush across the back of his eyelids, they just feel so much...

_Heavier._

* * *

Konan awakes to the sound of footsteps. Thick and heavy, crushing the mud.

She stays still, with difficulty, and looks around herself wildly. Nagato is fast asleep, pinned in a sitting position, head lolling to one side. She has no idea how long they have been sleeping for. Sunshine, wet and dribbling, is making its way onto their faces.

Sasuke is awake. Looking right at her.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he raises a stretched index finger to his lips. Konan hears the silent command.

_'__Quiet.__'_

She swallows. It is supposed to be gentle but it comes out loud in her own ears. Her bottom and legs are wedged in the muddy ground. A few dead leaves have settled on her hands.

They cannot stay. The footsteps are approaching fast. Konan tries to twist and stretch her face under the caked on, dried soot and ash and dirt.

She knows she will rustle if she moves. Imagines that Sasuke is thinking the same.

_Sasuke is thinking._

_Sasuke is back._

Konan glances over at Sasuke again, trying to ignore the ugly, persistent racket her heart is making. He looks tired, his face haggard and filthy, but at least he is focusing on the situation at hand.

Konan fumbles around with her right hand in the soil and mud, searching for something hard. The footsteps, while close and weighty, do not sound like they are hunting. Her fingers clasp around a thick piece of twig.

She throws it at Nagato. It lands on his left knee quite hard. His eyes are instantly, silently open. Konan knows they will search for her immediately; she is correct.

She repeats Sasuke's gesture quickly, eyes a little wild. Nagato, only seconds awake, registers, keeps quiet, and listens.

The footsteps continue.

'Sure it's around here... hard to tell with everything being chopped down...'

They are metres away. Konan can practically feel their breath on her skin. It is terrifying.

_Free._

_**Free.**_

She looks at her boys. They are both watching her, both aware. All of their bodies tense without being given an order; they know they must run, and do it soon, within seconds, microseconds...

_**Free.**_

As her body springs into glorious movement, Konan wonders if she will ever, truly, feel it.

* * *

They are escaping into the dawn of a bombing in Konoha. They don't see the smoke miles away, pouring upward from the remains of a city with character.

Their hope - their thin, wavering, fragile hope - rests in a morning bringing clarity, misery, and tears to those in a different world.

Those with no world left.

* * *

The three, cornered by Time while they slept, manage to break out of the remains of the forest and onto the road. A straight path is the easiest for them to stay together. A cripple, a weakling and a woman. They all move with the horrific fluidity of fear.

And it looks, just for a second, like they might run (limp, stagger, struggle) into that hopeful morning. It seems that Time may finally be on their side. Konan allows her heart a little naughtiness, a little glimpse at the word 'escape'...

Nagato slips.

Crashes.

Falls hard in the mud, cracking his face on the ground.

She isn't sure if she thinks or _says_ the words, but Konan curses. Loudly.

She skids to a sliding stop and spins at the sound of his bones hitting the floor. There are two _Fang_ guards upon him immediately, armed with fists and growls and dirty uniforms.

But Nagato fights back. Konan is momentarily frozen, inexplicably proud and also desperate to fix but not sure how. She can see his teeth flashing as he rolls around with the two guards, suddenly full of the energy to _survive _and _protect_.

Although Konan can't hear it, she _knows_ that Nagato is screaming at her, through his gnarling teeth ('Did he just draw blood?') and his white, bony fists. He is yelling.

_Run._

Freedom has lost its monotony and is suddenly sparkling again, singing a siren melody to her from the distance. Freedom will be warm, with a meal, and a bed, and safety and fresh clothes and a bath and _not being treated like an inhuman rat of a creature with every glance._

But Nagato.

But freedom.

But _Nagato. _

In a blur, Sasuke whips past her ('His leg... I thought it was...'). She thinks she hears him muttering something about playing the damned hero all the time.

He is in it. With Nagato. The two of them. And... Konan can hardly believe it... but they...

It is a strange, oddly beautiful thing to watch. It is odd because the two men with no strength left in their limbs are brawling like monsters. Nagato has blood strewn across his teeth. Sasuke is boxing like a professional ('Where did he learn _that_?!'), guarding and hooking and astonishingly efficient despite wobbling all over the place. The sounds of the fight fall over her like a soft wave of water, seeping into her ears, punctuated occasionally with the sound of a blow connecting with one of her boys' faces or a growl of sheer, pure rage.

It _is_ beautiful. Because, for the first time in so very long, Konan feels like someone is protecting her.

It won't last, she knows. But she enjoys the smell of it once more before reality slices her dream through like soft, newborn bread.

A gun.

_A gun._

She screams.

'No, no-no, they've got a g-'

Nagato reaches for the gun he stole from a dead guard's corpse but is too late.

There is a bullet in his chest before he can cock the trigger.

Sasuke dives for Nagato's gun out of fleeting instinct as it clackers to the scuffling ground, roaring something incomprehensible as Konan, in blind, horrific shock, pulls out and aims the gun she stole. And suddenly

the world

is completely upside-down

and she and Sasuke, with their dark hair and bright scarlet eyes and throaty choked battle cries

are aiming their loaded weapons at the _Fang _guards and everyone is standing perfectly still.

Silence steps between them all, delicate and holding its breath. Nagato manages a spluttering cough from the ground, hands sort of spidered up over his chest in agony.

The _Fang_ with the gun is haphazardously attempting to reload it with trembling fingers. Nagato is bleeding. Everywhere.

'Don't bother.'

Sasuke speaks first. This is the first time Konan has really heard him talk since pulling him from Construction. His voice is wet, but firm, and low, like a sick animal's growl. His left hand holds Nagato's gun; the right is clutching the top of his leg.

He moves his gun sharply, keeping it totted, indicating his command.

'Leave us. Now. Our friend may have been soft enough to reserve his bullets but I won't be so kind.'

Konan is not nearly so diplomatic. She fires a round into the floor with a strangled yell. The sound makes all of them jump.

The guards, covered in scratches, eyes blueing and bruising, stare. She knows she is a banshee to them, black skin and wild demon red eyes.

'_Get away from us!'_ she howls, feeling the words scramble out over her teeth, allowing the gunpowder smoke to carcass her face.

And a part of her simply cannot believe it when the guards begin to run. Out-numbered. Out-gunned. Two pistols to one.

They struggle back into the remains of the forest and are gone.

* * *

Sasuke keeps his gun aimed steadily at the retreating pair for a good thirty seconds before succumbing to the pain in his right leg and collapsing to his knees. With everything going on lately (_with how __**good**__ it was_) he had almost forgotten his weeping, scorching wound, burned shut by the faithful Nagato and broken open again by loving labour and senseless effort.

_Nagato._

Konan is holding him while he dies. And Sasuke has absolutely no doubt that Nagato is dying. He can see the vulture sitting on a tree stump nearby, watching solemnly as she rocks him gently.

As Sasuke edges closer, he can hear them talking. And, despite being one of them, he feels as though he is watching them in a puddle, only seeing the reflection and never able to truly join. Their words bundle up in his chest like a wet bomb, dangerous and useless.

'You know I can't fix this, don't you?'

Quiet. Breathy. 'Yeah.'

A moment. She doesn't know what to say to that.

'Oy, Konan?'

A trembling, stubborn lip. A rebellious tear. '... yes, Nagato?'

A smile. Dying and pale pink.

'You're out.'

_'We mustn't just roll over and die... we __**can't. **__We have things to achieve. Goals... I know what mine are. What are your goals, Nagato?'_

Ginger fronds of hair, thin and spindly, are caught in his eyelashes as he blinks up at her.

_'Konan... I want to protect her. When we get out of here, I want to live with her. And look after her. Her happiness has always been my goal.'_

Sasuke's pain is still too great. Not in his leg.

In his soul.

He can't bring himself to look at them as they say their final goodbyes to one another. He just reaches out blindly and clutches Nagato's hand. Keeps his eyes shut.

Feels his heart breaking over and over and over.

Konan's arms are strong like a mother's as she cradles the dying skeleton before them both. Her eyes are like precious marbles.

'I'm sorry,' he manages as she wraps him into her. 'I'm sorry I fell asleep.'

'You idiot...' Her laugh is teary and laden with bitterness. 'Don't be so silly. You want these to be your last words to me?'

'No...' He grins at her, and Konan sees Yahiko in Nagato's face. 'I want my... words to...'

He is struggling. Sasuke can feel the death rattle of his ribcage.

'We'll see you later... Y- Yahi... we'll- I'll... wait.'

* * *

Here is another one of those amazing people, I think as I lift his life from his limbs. His spirit gives quite easily, and falls into my grasp with a relaxed, final sigh.

Another one of those amazing people.

Who will wait. And wait.

And _wait_.

* * *

Nagato dies quietly, chest glowing in blood. Sasuke feels Konan shift beside him, sinking down, burying her head in.

He is ashamed, but he still can't look. He is so _scared _that he will see his brother lying there. He can't. Sasuke knows that he is not strong anymore.

He was never strong in the first place.

All he can do is hold the hand of this dear, dead man. And wonder how many times it is possible for all these hearts to keep breaking.

* * *

In the soot and devastation of the early morning, Yamato stands on the corner of a street in the centre of the village. It is surprisingly quiet. The December rainfall has stopped for now, but little pieces of floating debris are carried into his face on the cold wind. Sunlight yawns and stretches in bits and pieces over what remains of the lives of so many.

The evacuation squads are packing up their last belongings quietly. The scene is already mildly hallowed, and everybody seems scared to break the strange, oddly peaceful noise of broken timber cracking under the bomb-heat it has been subjected to.

Yamato cannot quite bring himself to go back to _Tengoku_ street. Or what is left of it. He cannot face being alone all over again - not just yet. Things were just settling, he was finally starting to get his hands wrapped back around his own life.

He sighs quietly.

'Sober now?'

His companion, face damp with tears but set stiff and firm, glances at him.

'Yeah. Stone cold.'

'Think yourself lucky.' Yamato takes a stab at consolation. 'Our drinking session has saved your life.'

A scoff. A scowl. An almost invisible, only conceivable to the grief-trained eye hitch of the shoulders and bite of the lip.

'My dad was in there. He's gone, just like the rest. Pretty difficult to feel lucky right now.'

With a sad half smile, Yamato places his hand on Shikamaru's slender shoulder.

Squeezes tight.

'I know, kid. I get it.'

* * *

Hospital clean up went on into the evening of the next day and beyond. Hinata supposed it was something to do with all the patients they had to move from the wards that had been damaged.

That, and treating all the extra injuries that came with the attack.

_(And the bodies that had to be moved, quickly, to try and maintain some sort of order in the place.)_

She'd been halfway to home when the first explosion crashed into her eardrums and caused her to choke on her own gasp. As she took in the smoke rising from the poor district of town, another bomb fell, and the noise of the attacking plane soared through the smoke and over her head. She'd watched in frozen, angry terror, unable to peel her eyes away from the small but speedy aircraft as its flight path crossed with the hospital building. Its final bomb was clearly intended to wipe out the whole hospital but only clipped the southern corner, wreaking havoc on the renal ward but thankfully only shaking the foundations of the rest of the building.

That logic - that calm, rational thinking - hadn't stopped her feet from picking her up and hurling her back to the hospital as the plane tailed away into the distance.

Didn't stop her from racing to Naruto's room, despite frantic cries from her colleagues to stop and help. She couldn't resist the pull that dragged her trembling into his room.

He'd been on the floor, out cold. Hinata had checked his pulse and he was fine, and when he woken up, Naruto explained that he'd been getting out of bed to go to the bathroom when the noise of what he assumed was an explosion took him by such surprise that he slipped and hit his head on something - probably the bedpost.

Through tears and smiles Hinata had put him back to bed. Bandaged his freshly bleeding head. Promised him a visit as soon as she could manage one.

Since then, Hinata had _worked_.

There were so many patients who needed moving. Renal wing was a disaster area and Dr Tsunade headed the team dealing with the severe injuries (and worse) resulting from the devastation of that particular block. However the damage had spread: instruments had fallen and smashed, beds had toppled, patients had fallen and were confused and upset. The whole hospital was thrown into uproar as the night shift nurses tried to keep everybody calm, comfortable and safe.

Nobody knew if another bomb was coming.

Hinata worked steadily, keeping her stuttering voice calm and gentle, kindly helping any confused patients back to bed, gingerly administering treatment for additional wounds.

Her shift began at 05:18.

She finally got to Naruto at 21:45 that evening. She was tired. She was sweaty and grimy and covered in filth.

His face lit up at her arrival.

'Hinata! Hinata you won't _believe it_!'

Full of energy. Hinata never quite understood him. How he could just be so... resilient.

'Listen!'

He had acquired (_'H-how on earth did he get that?!'_) a small wind up radio. It looked ready to be shot. Naruto grasped out from the bed. Clutched her wrist with one arm. Turned up the ancient volume dial with the other.

_'-and a ceasefire has now been agreed by all parties. The Fourth is not currently available for comment but the release specifically states that Konoha is now in a state of surrender. Citizens are advised to stay in their homes and are asked not to resist to cooper-'_

'It's over!' Naruto eagerly butted in, clean voice easily silencing the radio's crackle. 'The war... it's over!'

Hinata's lips twitched, then broke into a smile. Then let through a tired, generous, _overjoyed_ laugh.

'I-I'm so glad we lost!'

He laughed and pulled her close, forgetting the radio, forgetting the hospital. Once she was folded into his arms, Naruto buried his nose and mouth into her hair.

Whispered.

'We'll have to move soon.'

'Yes,' she replied quietly into his chest, face hidden from all. 'You're right.'

The war might have been over, but there was still a battle to be fought.

The one against the fences they had long ago sworn to rip down.

* * *

It strikes Hinata as she leaves the hospital that night that she has been so wrapped in the world of the wards that she is not actually aware how badly the other two bombs damaged the village. She had seen them drop over the poor district and then her mind had flooded with Naruto and the hospital and only now, on her way home, does she start to think for a second.

The poor district.

_SakuraherMotherherFatherherUncleShikamaru_

_**Shikamaru**_

She is so sick of running lately. It seems to be all she does.

But she runs anyway.

Runs and runs and runs.

To the smoldering corpse of his home. He is sitting outside it, on what is left of the curb.

For the second time in less than two days, Hinata sits herself next to a weeping curb-sitter and reaches out her heart. Thinks how unfair it is that the war didn't decide to stop a day sooner.

Before it could murder all of these people.

* * *

Night brings a very heavy, icy rain. Burned forests have given way into fuller, untouched ones but even they don't really provide enough shelter from the bitter blankets and gusts of weather, so Sasuke and Konan (leaning, more desperately than ever, on each other) count themselves fortunate when they discover a small, abandoned store-house a little way off a meandering country road. After a quick, half-hearted sniff around outside they push open the door as boldly as they dare. It is unlocked and the store-house is empty except for a few rats who scurry at the sight of them.

Sasuke, practically transparent he is so soaked, doesn't fail to notice the irony.

They fall into a warm looking corner, ripping off their military jackets, logged with water. Around them are cloth bags filled with soft, rotten potatoes, and Konan pulls a few into the corner for them to lean against. Once they're down they know they're not going to move again for a while. Once satisfied that they won't be easily noticed if someone comes in, the two of them collapse in a starved heap, all limbs and puddles and shivers, and gradually move themselves into a half-comfortable position.

Konan is curled up, crying into herself silently. Sasuke is on his back, arm out to form a pillow for Konan, injured leg bent at an awkward angle and bleeding onto the dusty floorboards.

She sees this through her crying. But she is not able to do anything about it. Her tears are too heavy and her limbs too full of grief.

Konan simply lies there, curled up like a lonely baby, not really feeling the man she rests on. Her tears drip down her face and into the collective puddle they have formed.

Eventually she trips into a fitful sleep. But Sasuke lies awake all night.

He stares up at the black ceiling, at the back of his brother's head, hair growing back like little shoots of life in soil, and feels himself fall into the inevitable replaying of the day as it steals any claim on sleep he may have made.

* * *

She is on time, as promised. Naruto had asked Hinata to arrive just after breakfast on her day off (he knows he always thinks better on a full stomach) and she does just that. She has washed and brushed and brings with her the scent of baking.

Once the nurse attending him has taken his temperature and checked his vitals, they are left alone in their wonderfully convenient little side room. Before Naruto can make a start, Hinata blurts out:

'Shikamaru is a-alive. But his h-house and his Father are go-gone. He is staying w-with me.'

'What?' Naruto feels his eyes widen drastically. 'Is he... I mean... how did...'

'He informs m-me Sakura is also s-still alive and well. B-but her house... and family... are g-gone. The b-bombs.'

Naruto pales. His skin turns a misty white and his eyes suddenly look strange; too bright.

'You're saying... Anko.. and Kakashi...'

She nods. There are tears splashing from the bottom row of her eyelashes onto her cheeks.

'It's so... h-horrible.'

She hiccups a little. Rubs at her eyes with determined, tiny fists.

'T-that's why...' Her wobbly voice makes Naruto want to reach out but he is still frozen by the news, words pinning him like manacles to his bed.

'That's why w-we can't l-let them take _anyone _else f-from us!'

Naruto shifts. Gazes at his comfortable bed sheets.

And thinks of Sasuke.

_'What bed is he lying on now? What cover does he have to shelter under? What woman does he have to comfort him?'_

* * *

Gosh. Kakashi could see the future... but nobody sees the _present_ like Naruto.

* * *

Naruto knows it is silly. Knows he is probably being childish and unreasonable in the face of Time and its permanent demeanor.

But Naruto has never - not once - believed his friend is dead.

(Not even after, while clambering frantically into a hole in the ground, he looked back one last time to see a well-placed bullet embed itself into a poorly-placed leg and a body flung like a ragdoll to the dirt. Nobody knows about that. Not Sakura, not Shikamaru, not Hinata. That image, and its possessions (worries, terrors, tears, heartaches, not-knowing) are his to bear alone.)

And some little part of Naruto - whether it be logic or desire or delusion - knows - just _knows_ - that Sasuke is waiting for them.

Somewhere.

Hinata's words stir his heart and his fists. She is upset and standing as rigid as a match, head dropped down to her chest while she cries.

'Hinata.'

A shameful sniffle. 'Y-yes?'

'Is Shikamaru still up for it?'

She looks up at him, fringe hanging across her pale stare. 'He is. H-he... I... confirmed it y-yesterday.'

'Good.'

Naruto's colour has returned. His body speaks of determination and resolve.

'I get out of here in three days.' His voice is low and quiet but solid, like well set mortar. 'By that time, get any surviving members of FOX into small teams of two or three. The war is over but there are thousands of Reds without homes to go to, hiding, not knowing where they are or where to move next. We're gonna take them in... somehow. But we've gotta find them first. Some will be sick and need help - any nurses you trust, get them involved. In three days we will go and comb the countryside for surviving Reds and we will help them.'

* * *

The vulture peers down from his perch atop the towering fence with mild interest, A glowing, incandescent orange fire is burning at the base of the metal. Its smoke crawls up and tickles his beak.

He doesn't need to speak to communicate how insignificant this little fire is. How useless its passion is in the face of, quite simply, the _way things go_. Who does this fire think he is, flowering and blistering into the air? Does he really think he can change things?

However, the vulture can't honestly say he is not taken by complete surprise when two arms, fingers outstretched and joints long and burning, erupt from the blue-hot centre of the flame and grab onto the links into the fence. They grip.

And begin to shake it.

Hard.

* * *

**Day One**

Konan awakens to the sound of the wind. It is bowing and bawling around the storehouse. Her head has a comfortable pillow; she glances to the left to find she is lying on Sasuke's outstretched arm. He is already awake, watching the ceiling and listening to the wind howl.

Konan pushes herself up with creaking arms and sits. Her face feels crusty and swollen. She reaches up to touch it only to remember that she is still caked in mud and ash from the previous day. They will need to find a way to wash; they can't keep all this dirt on them.

'How long did I sleep for?' she asks, sleep crackling her vocal chords.

Sasuke starts. Nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of her voice. 'W-what?'

Sorry.' Konan scratches her scalp. Wonders if she has lice again. 'Thought you were awake.'

She watches Sasuke take a deep breath (and pretends not to notice the disconcerting rattle that comes with it) as he too drags himself into a sitting position. She realises how bad _she _must look as she watches his filthy skin move over his bones.

'We need to wash somewhere,' Konan says firmly. She knows she has switched into what, over the years, she has termed as 'Survival Mode': no thinking about yesterday, no thinking about lost things, only focusing on tomorrow and what must be done _today_ to make sure she gets there. She feels it happen every time. When she was assessed, upon entry to the camp, and her mother was sent in a different direction. When she saw Yahiko's so-often smiling face expressionless on the black ground. Each time those _animal_ guards summoned her.

And now.

Konan firmly believes her time to grieve for all she has lost will come. She refuses to give any of her oppressors the pleasure of watching her die because of their efforts. So she takes real joy in the dreadfully familiar feeling of everything slipping away into the Mode, into the blankness of survival, into the sterile realms of logic and common sense and a little luck.

The switch has been flipped. Konan has cried her tears. For now. She tells herself firmly.

There is light ebbing in from a small window near the top of the storehouse, and she finally gets a good look around. Last night had been so dark and trembling and fatigued that she'd felt almost as though she were sleep walking. Now her senses are ablaze with the will to survive and she keenly takes in her surroundings.

The storehouse is actually quite spacious. She and Sasuke have occupied only a little corner of it overnight but it is probably the size of her downstairs area at home.

_'Home... I haven't thought about that for a long time.'_

The floorboards are dusty and there is a strong, musky smell in the air but Konan can cope with that. More importantly, there are a number of crates stacked in a corner, next to a pile of bags. They look suspiciously like food. A small window lets the light in and the space isn't _warm_ but it is better than the freezing weather outside. At least they are dry(ish) and sheltered for the moment from the rest of the world.

Konan can do something with this.

She takes another glance at Sasuke. He looks completely exhausted. A little sleep has refreshed her, but _he_ looks even worse than yesterday. During her time in the camp Konan relied on Sasuke just as heavily as the other two to provide stolen goods (sometimes he even made her the odd bit of metal ware to sell, which went down a treat among other prisoners because of its value to the guards) but apart from those months ago when she supported him after he was injured, she has never really been up close with him. Not close enough to see the tiredness of his colour or the sad way in which his collar bones are trying to break through his skin. Beneath all the grime and murk and starvation, Konan can imagine that once he might have been quite handsome. Now, she is only certain of one thing.

He is sick.

Sleep hasn't revived him. His pallor, even in this morning light, is wasted and pale. And she can feel from the heat on her face where she rested upon his arm that he is very, very hot.

Konan's Survival Mode does the most amazing thing sometimes. In the presence of a friend, a loved one, a precious person, it grows. Doesn't just apply itself to her. But sticks itself to _them_, too. Granted, it doesn't have a one hundred percent success rate, but it is better than nothing.

And suddenly, Konan is bouncing with energy. Hunting around the storeroom. Burrowing in the crates and burlaps to find anything good.

Find she does.

Carrots. A little soft but there's nothing to cook with so the softness isn't a bad thing. Some potatoes, not quite rotten.

Konan can't quite believe her luck when she discovers a crate full of tinned meat. Cooked. Ready to go.

'Sasuke!' she says eagerly, whirling to face him. He is watching her in a half daze, still sitting where she left him. 'Do you have anything I could get this open with?'

He squints at her through dirty eyes. 'No. But your lapels...'

The guard's jacket, crumpled in their sleeping corner, beautifully decorated with badges and achievements. Konan's face lights.

'Brilliant. I'm sure I can use one of these to prize it open...'

She returns to the jacket, and then gets back to work. Sasuke lets his eyes follow her, allowing himself to be distracted by her rummagings and rootings. After a couple more minutes he hears a 'pop' and a happy exclamation of 'Haaa!' as she succeeds in opening the can of meat.

He smiles. Just a little. He is glad she can celebrate. Even something so small.

Soon she has put together a sort of meal of vaguely mashed potatoes, carrots messily chopped with a badge, and a few pieces of ham, wet and sloppy but possibly the most appealing thing in the world. She has torn off a piece of one of the sacks to make a stretched cloth plate, and she brings it to where he is lying for them to share.

'Enjoy,' she says quietly. 'It's the best I could manage.'

Sasuke picks up some mashed, cold, uncooked potato in his hands. Presses it with filthy fingers into his dry mouth.

He glances at Konan as she forces it in, swallowing noisily. There is distaste on her face and as Sasuke attempts to chew the potatoes he can see why. Still, it goes down.

'Sorry,' Konan murmurs between mouthfuls of soft carrot that tastes like dust.

Sasuke shakes his head. 'No. Nothing to be sorry about.'

He bites off a bit of ham with teeth that have almost forgotten how to chew.

'Thanks.'

'Don't talk with your mouth open.'

He blinks. Raises an eyebrow. Sees her smiling.

The ham tastes amazing. The whole _thing _tastes amazing.

Not because of the taste.

But because of sitting down. Because they are chewing and swallowing and tasting _not in there_.

Because it isn't watery onion soup which stings their back teeth.

'We need to find somewhere to wash soon,' Konan says as she licks the juice of the ham from her grubby fingers. 'We've probably just ingested a million and one bits of dirt.'

Sasuke nods as he forces down his final mouthful of carrot. 'I know. But let's wait a little longer. Those guards...' (he is sorry to remind her, and himself, of _those _guards) '... they may not be gone yet. I don't want us to compromise anything else.'

On the surface he is talking about the storehouse - their shelter, their temporary sanctuary. But underneath the underneath, Konan knows he is talking about her, and him, and their lives. Which are the only things they have left.

No health. Very little happiness.

Just their bodies. And the lives left in them.

Sasuke sighs loudly. Dramatically.

'That was the worst thing I've ever tasted. Wouldn't feed it to a pig.'

Konan smiles. Laughs.

Feels maybe, just maybe, a little better.

* * *

After they have eaten Konan feels Sasuke's forehead with the back of her hand. Tells him he is too hot. Instructs him to sleep.

With a little solid food in his guts, Sasuke, surprising even himself with his pliancy, lies back down, avoids looking at the rafters and roof above him, and manages to enter into a blank sleep with nothing but a white screen invading his dreams. Konan waits a bit for his slightly raspy breathing to even, and then takes it upon herself to check Sasuke's leg.

She is sure his limp has gradually been getting worse. And she has definitely noticed the awkward angle he has been holding the right leg at compared with the left. All that running and fighting can't have been doing him much good, and their current situation (still in freezing clothes, still undernourished and weak and so tired) is just screaming danger at her.

The badge she used to cut the carrots earlier is small but has a sharp edge; it is a leaf, deep green with tiny, serrated edges like a rabid animal's jaw. She unpins it from its place upon her jacket's lapel and quietly (with fingers that she refuses to admit are trembling terribly) begins to cut away at the material around the top of Sasuke's trousers.

Her hands are quick and nimble despite the cold that still lingers, like a shadow of a dream resting just along her cuticles, barely there but still able to make her shiver and wish for a warm fire. She pulls at the material; it is caked in mud and difficult to cut but by stretching it out she weakens it. A hasty glance at Sasuke's face tells her she has not woken him and she finally tears a decent enough rip in the fabric.

It smells. Not of dirt or grime or sweat or anything she'd expect.

It smells _bad_.

Frowning worriedly Konan lifts the flap of material and peers beneath. Part of her already knows what she will see.

_Infection._

Vile, awful, devastating infection. The burn (so lovingly administered by anguished, shaking hot instruments) has failed and Konan can see without being a trained nurse how bad it is. Even just lifting that little flap of material she can feel a morbid heat radiating from the area. It is swollen and septic.

'Damn it...' she whispers through clenched teeth, lifting the material flap at different angles to allow her to examine the wound from all sides. 'Damn it damn it _damn it_.'

Konan is not a doctor. She is not a nurse.

But she is not stupid.

And she has seen enough to know that this wound - the one they thought they were all in the clear from - is going to kill him.

Konan replaces the material flap gently, bringing her hand to her eyes and rubbing her face hard.

_'Think. __**Think**__, Konan. There must be something you can do. '_

Her eyes are wet; no tears, no whimpers, but just a burning, raging wetness. She looks up at the ceiling for a moment to clear her mind.

There is a vulture in the rafters.

He looks perfectly comfortable for now, perched contentedly upon a particular beam. From the way he watches them - feathers unruffled, gaze glowering frighteningly - Konan gets the feeling that this bird _knows_ them, and has _followed_ them, and is _**dangerous**_.

She hisses at it. Loudly. The black bird opens its beak for a moment as though ready to retaliate, and then shifts its feathers a little and settles back down, unperturbed.

Konan continues to glare. She is adamant, voraciously so. Pressing her lips together, she returns her gaze to her patient with a final mental warning thrown up at the bald bird.

_'You __**can't**__ have him.'_

When she looks at Sasuke's face Konan realises she has woken him up. Must have been her threat to the dark shadow of Time watching from above. She smiles rather dourly at him.

'Sorry, Sasuke. I wasn't supposed to wake you.'

He takes note of the cutting badge in her hand. The blazing wetness of her eyes. The scent of illness that he has been desperately trying to mask for days.

He doesn't need to say anything. He just looks at her, reading the gut-punching diagnosis on her face. Sasuke knows he is dying. But seeing someone else know he is dying is a different matter. It hits home a little more.

'We need to try and clean it up,' Konan speaks suddenly, hastily, looking down at his leg. Sasuke shifts a tad and raises an eyebrow.

'Really? You think that will help?'

She doesn't like what she is hearing between his words. Smirking under there amongst his ropey breaths.

_'You really think it's worth doing __**anything**__ now?'_

'Of course!' she replies snippishly. 'I don't know what end of the stick you've grabbed onto Sasuke but this is just a little infection. It can be easily treated with cleaning and... and care.'

She stands. Stretches. Sasuke can see the heat draining from the wetness of her eyes. No longer a hot shimmer, it is becoming distressed.

'You just go back to sleep.' Her voice is flat in an attempt to hide. 'I will take care of you.'

_'Konan needs this,'_ Sasuke realises as she turns away. _'She needs to know she won't be the last one.'_

'Okay,' he says softly, taking an attempt at a deep breath. 'I'll sleep, and when I'm feeling a bit livelier we will go outside and try to find some clean water. You can fix me up then. Sound good?'

A quiet, shameful little sniff. A nod. She turns her face back to him and is smiling.

'Sounds excellent. You're going to be fine, Sasuke.'

* * *

How utterly ridiculous. The one who is dying comforting the one who will live. The one grasped in the clamps of physical pain, melting its way through his body, trying to console the one whose pain is concentrated only in the metaphysical, the mental, the emotional.

In what way can the dying protect the living? In what way can they do anything at all but wait for me to pull their souls from their corpses?

I've been after this one for a long time. No girl is going to get in the way, no matter how fierce her gaze or strong her will.

Time is inevitable. It's a lesson we all must learn.

Humans really do fascinate me.

* * *

**Day 2**

Hinata cuts her visit to Naruto short today. She normally stays for as long as visiting hours will allow - longer, sometimes, depending on which nurses are on ward duty. But this time her visit is brief, factual and hurried.

'I'm s-sorry to leave so early.' She gives him her parting words all in a muddle, grabbing her coat. It has begun to snow outside and she has been with him so briefly that the tiny pieces of frost that gathered in her hair on the way in are still white and solid as she leaves.

'His visiting hours are s-still restricted, and I h-have a lot to d-discuss with him...'

'It's fine, Hinata.' Naruto smiles, looking healthier and healthier each day. He is due to have his bandage removed for good this afternoon after recovering very well from his head injury, He will be kept in for one more night, just for observation, and then released on strict rest orders.

Naruto does not intend to comply.

'You just make sure to look after Neji,' he chuckles as she buttons up her white coat. 'He's probably forgotten what sunlight feels like.'

She doesn't bother responding, but Naruto catches her smile as she quietly exits the room. He holds in his hands a file - for his eyes only.

Inside it are the names of all the members of FOX who are still active and in the vicinity of the village.

And who are willing to help.

Now, Hinata is going to see if more have been recruited. More people to assist. More people to save.

More people to pull down the fence.

* * *

Neji has been true to his word. Hinata has been liaising with him for months now, and Neji, ever in control, has made a superb amount of connections within not just Konoha prison, but through a number of other prisons across Fire Country and even stretching into other countries. Hinata supposes it all makes sense; the majority of prisoners are currently political ones, and keeping such a large number of revolutionaries in such small, confined areas is like asking for a revolt. They all want to break the system. They all want to pull down the fence.

Their meetings are always so quick. Since her childhood, Hinata cannot remember a time when Neji bothered saying anything but the absolutely necessary. For him, words are only the means of communicating instruction or straightforward information.

For Neji, it is the actions that count.

Today, on Hinata's final visit to him in prison, she sits quietly while they wait for the supervising guard to disappear. They are generally trusted to be left alone (Hinata's bread has certainly helped this).

Neji reaches through the primitive bars of his cell and hands her a slip of paper. Performing a final check that the guard is gone, Hinata takes the small, crunched note and opens it swiftly, allowing her eyes to eat up the digits written inside.

'86'

She frowns delicately; her face is almost incapable of harsh expressions. She is too frightened of offending anybody for that. 'W-what does this mean?'

Neji's voice is smooth and official - as always. 'That is the number we have reached of political prisoners who are to be released by the end of this week. Of those eighty-six political prisoners, every single one is willing to participate in this final effort to save as many Reds as we can.'

'Ei-eighty-six?' she squeaks, scrunching the paper. 'All of th-them?'

'Yes. They have all agreed to help.' He nods as he talks. 'They are split across twelve different prisons over five countries. That results in roughly seventeen people per country as an average. Which means we can account for four or five teams in each country searching for any Reds hiding in the country or on the run. If we allocate each of these teams a camp and tell them to focus on a particular radius or geographical area...'

'I n-never expected so much help...' Hinata stammers. 'Especially f-from all these different c-countries... it is really am-mazing.'

'Yes.' Neji repeats, leaning back in his cell. He has been fairly well looked after during his time in prison. He may be a political prisoner, but his father is and always will be an influential, powerful figure. He might not have been able to release Neji from his prison sentence entirely, but he has certainly managed to make it more comfortable than most.

'It's really quite amazing how many people have been hiding their feelings. They've been invisible for so long. They're all itching to move and make themselves known again.'

He looks her square in the soul.

'I'll be coming with you, Hinata. We will be on a squad together.'

Hinata knows better to argue with a man so calm and in control. 'Of c-course. I will relay that to Naruto. He is going to sort the teams today and we will then allocate supplies and rations where we need to.'

Neji nods. 'That is fine. Come back to me tomorrow with the finalised plans for the Leaf Village. The other eighty six, I think, will sort themselves out. They're a fairly organised lot.'

Hinata stands. Gets ready to leave. There is so much to be done.

'Thank you,' she says as she places the crumpled note into her pocket. 'We are counting o-on those eighty six. The Reds of K-Konoha cannot be the only ones t-to be rescued.'

'They won't be.' Neji is solid and characteristically confident. 'The whole world will know what has happened here. We won't look back and say we could have done more, or could have saved more. We won't hesitate.'

He smiles. Hinata thinks he looks tired. As comfortable as it may have been, she cannot imagine Neji will be sad to leave his cell tomorrow morning.

She wonders what freedom will feel like for him.

What it will feel like for them all.

* * *

Sasuke sleeps through the night. And most of the next day. Konan watches.

And frets.

She hadn't realised it was quite this bad. Certainly he is tired - so is she - but sleeping solidly, barely moving, breaths almost imaginary; all indications that she has seriously underestimated how bad things have gotten. Nobody healthy sleeps for this long.

There are times, just the odd few, when she thinks he has died. When his form is utterly still. And a strange feeling suddenly cracks across her heart each time, like a whip, minutely resounding and wrenching and wholly encompassing. Just before she sinks into the lash, she notices Sasuke take a small, gentle breath, in it goes, in and around, giving life and fighting and clinging on, and she shakes off the feeling, instantly caring and worrying and biting her filthy fingernails again.

The hours are dreadfully slow. She has not slept at all, not one wink -

_'And I won't. Not until he is better or he is-'_

-and the fatigue is showing on her face. Her eyes are sunken. A few small bites of carrot and ham are no substitution for a good rest.

When Sasuke opens his eyes, Konan feels like her sleepy, weary heart could implode with relief.

'Oh, Sasuke,' she sighs, resting her palms flat on the cold floor. 'You're awake.'

Her relief, like all good things, does not last long.

Sleep has not healed him. Not even _all that sleep_. The whites of his eyes are yellowing. His skin is sunken. His breath, so unconsciously peaceful, is sharp and horribly mortal. It is all so awfully clear now.

'Sasuke?' Konan inches closer, reaching out to feel his forehead. Through the grime he is burning like a mutant fire.

'You're so _hot_,' she mutters. He is looking at her through half open eyes.

And it strikes Konan that

no matter _what_ she does

no matter _how hard she tries_

that this is _it _for Sasuke.

Frantically, she throws her face up the rafters. The vulture is gone.

Her eyes search the store-house in haphazard panic. _'Where is it, where is that bird, __**where is it?!**__'_

'Konan...'

His voice. Is this Uchiha Sasuke? Where is the one she has always had so much confidence in, the one who raided and glowed and tamed metal itself?

His _voice_.

Thoughts of the vulture disintegrate as the leaking cavities left of his words flood her ears. She is holding his hand instantly.

'I'm right here,' she says as boldly as she can manage, shaking away tears of frustration and biting her lip, hard, to keep her composure. 'What do you need?'

'Can we...' Breathing is hard for him. Konan's heart, big and brimming, lurches like a ship in a storm. '...Can we... go out? I'm so... hot...'

He has never asked her for anything, not like this. Even when he was first shot, he dragged himself through it all without a moment's hesitation, not giving himself the choice or the chance to become her burden. Back then, she'd been helpless in the face of his steel courage - she did not know how to fit in. Now, she is helpless in the face of his weakness. His blood is boiling in the furnaces of infection and she cannot offer him a single comfort.

She swallows.

'It's... it's very cold, Sasuke. I went out earlier and it was snowing, hard. And the wind is really bitter. Are you sure you want to go out?'

A nod. Barely perceptible. Just a slight movement of slick, spilled-ink-pot hair as he turns his face to hers.

'Please...'

She is powerless. She is a child faced with everything bad in the whole world, gnashing and snarling and ruining and relentlessly killing.

He is _dying_.

What does is matter what they do now?

'Okay then.' One last act. She will wear her mother-mask until the very finale. 'Let's get you cooled down. We can even wash some of this dirt off us. Such a state.'

Sasuke doesn't speak as Konan pulls him up, awkward and jolty, and slips her tiny body under his arm. She staggers to her knees, then lifts, faltering, until they are both upright.

She curses the way his head hangs. The way his long, horrifically thin arms dangle lifelessly. She curses the vulture - that's right, she's seen it - loitering behind one of the sacks of potatoes, red eyes glowing in gluttonous anticipation.

'Hey,' she says as she somehow begins to move them toward the door. 'Have you... uh... have you seen that stupid bird?'

She is surprised when Sasuke snorts quietly.

'That... that miserable thing... has been following me for a... long... _long_ time...'

He smirks. Konan watches him closely.

'I guess... he finally caught up with me.'

* * *

Dusk is fast approaching. A thick wind is grinding hefty flakes of snow through the darkening sky.

They step out, clad only in soiled rags. The temperature immediately sinks its fangs into their bones. The world seems a very, very dark place.

Sasuke hears himself gasp. He doesn't really have much control over his reflexes any more. His body is upright but he knows he is not standing. His chest hitches and catches on every intake of freezing oxygen and he cannot make it stop.

The wind attacks suddenly, like bitter water on the back of the tongue. Nothing soothes the awful smoldering in his muscles. It simply adds a new dimension of discomfort, like a knife-edge rubbing against a burn. His injured leg is completely numb.

He wants to do his best for Konan. He truly doesn't want to upset her or frighten her. But his mouth is dry and lazy and can't pick up any words of encouragement. She shivers against his limp frame as they step out, closing the door to the store house and bracing against the wild elements.

Through clacking teeth Konan addresses him. He can hardly hear her over the white howl of the wind. He watches her lips for a guide.

'Are you sure about this?'

Is he? He doesn't know. The fire in his veins, the gutty, pulsing feeling of every pump of his heart, the lightheadedness, the pain in his whole being... it is driving him to make decisions he does not understand.

For some reason he does not want to go back inside. Maybe it's the vulture. Somewhere inside him scoffs. There's no escaping the vulture now.

Whatever the reason is, it won't let go of him. Sasuke nods again, hair whipping and sticking to sweaty skin, and Konan gives him a smile despite her obvious displeasure at the temperatures.

'Okay. Keep walking. We'll find a clean bit of snow to wash your skin with.'

They lumber through the snow, the silhouettes of two sapling trees stripped of their leaves and left only to rot in the dead soil. Their rags dance ritualistically around their bodies. Their breath fights with the air.

'It's so cold, Sasuke...'

'I know...' his lips are cracked and pathetic. He can hardly move.

They stop. Konan has taken them to a very clean, fresh patch of snow on the ground. The wind whips across the surface of it and if Sasuke watches carefully he can see waves of snow-dust fleeting and scraping in droves. They try to catch the ground again but are simply lost in the raucous howling of the wind.

Konan lowers them both carefully. Sasuke can feel her violent trembling. His own body is still, succumbed with no strength to shiver. How can a numb leg sting so much when the cold snow sinks into it? How can his bones continue to burn with such a rage despite the icy dusk?

They sit. Sasuke looks at Konan and sees a shaking wreck of a once beautiful woman. Her bony hands dip into the snow, cupping together gently and delicately, almost in prayer. She scoops a small bundle of white and separates her hands, sacrificing bits of it to the wind.

'Hold still.'

When the snow touches his face, minty and excruciatingly fresh, Sasuke winces and shuts his eyes. Everything hurts, but that's not the reason.

The snow.

_'It's snowing outside?'_

It makes him remember.

_'Describe it? The world outside? I'm a trainee nurse, Sasuke. I hardly have a way with words.'_

And gives him no choice but to think of her.

_'You say you can make _anything_ out of the snow?'_

Sakura.

She is smiling at him. Her hands are out-stretched and a small window has been robbed of its cold white furnishing.

She wants him to make her a swan.

It is a time when the coldness of the snow doesn't bother him. It is a time when her eyes, such a gorgeous shade of green, and her scent, rosy and blooming, are not forbidden.

_'Well... I'll just leave you to it, then!'_

Sasuke looks at her smile. Touches her hair with hands that have been criminalised. Reaches out to her through the politics and the words and posters and slogans and the shops being closed down and his parents disappearing one day. He reaches through the faces of strangers and the darkness of whispered rumours and the bleakness of a camp full of dead people and the abyss of piles of sick bodies and trembling nights and images of swans and Yahiko and soup that burns of undernourishment and candle of hope being snuffed and Nagato and a failed raid and glimpses of freedom and a beloved brother shot in the head and dead in the ground and running and fighting and baring his face and throwing punch after punch after punch at that bird that bird that follows him that bird who takes everything away mother father friends brothers _everything._

Sasuke, fingertips brushing the ghost of his lover, supposes that now isn't a good time to start asking questions.

And he doesn't suppose that matters.

'Why, Konan?' he asks quietly, unable to even raise his voice. It isn't anger he is feeling. It is a deep, anguished woe that straddles every word like a cheap, devastated thrill. The white world is trying to steal his memories. 'Why are we here?'

_'Sasuke? Where are you? I thought you'd be asleep!'_

She does not answer. She _cannot _answer. She continues to push through the snow with slim, twig fingers and presses it to the hot skin of his face. He can feel it melting on him. The water that drips away is dirty and diseased.

'I mean... what did we do?' He squints at her, wind flooding around them like treacherous sea water. 'What did we - you, and me, ever... ever do to _them_?'

_'It might be alright for a family of swans made out of ice to live down here in these temperatures, but it _certainly_ isn't acceptable for you to! You're a __**human being! **__You need warmth!'_

Again, no answer. Lost, completely, and feeling more and more separate from reality, he picks up a bit of snow with wobbly, scalding hands.

'Here.'

He pushes the powder to her face, running it over her dirty nose, forehead, lips in small circles.

Konan closes her eyes. Sasuke can see she is doing her best not to cry.

'And why...'

Why is he doing this? What is the point in philosophising now?

_'You're freezing.'_

'Why did they kill Nagato? Why did they shoot Yahiko? And me? Why were we even _in there_ in the first place? Why...'

_'You're freezing all over.'_

His breath is at a loose end. He is coughing the words out, thick, unholy, desperate.

'Why did they ruin our _whole lives_, Konan? Why did they take our parents and... and our _homes..._ and... and we weren't doing anything wrong... and... why...'

_''You're not made of ice. You're not supposed to live in a dark room, with no warmth or light. Even plants can't survive that way.'_

He is crying.

It is the first time he has openly wept in years. The tears are innocent and newborn in the dusk.

_'Just dropping like that - you scared me half to death, Sasuke.'_

'Why did they... why did they have to kill...'

He chokes. Sobs.

Sobs.

_'Foolish little brother.'_

He cannot say anything else. His voice completely fails him, runs away in the face of the unfamiliar, shattered, _gaping_ tears.

Sasuke pulls away from Konan. There is still snow dripping down her skinny face. He crawls, body heaving, aching and burning and heart wailing.

He makes it about a metre in the opposite direction. On all fours like a dog. Wounded and savage. His hands cannot find their rightful place in the snow.

With a head too heavy to lift, and a grief too heavy (always too heavy, always too much) to bear, Sasuke simply stops. Watches the white blanket of the snow.

Sakura is smiling at him.

And he can see himself, a baby weeping, dirty and ravaged and starving and diseased and utterly, completely spent.

She is still smiling.

_'Why did they take her away__ from me__?'_

His tears, balmy and downtrodden, disappear in the snow, and the wind, and the waste.

'What...' he mouths, no sound left, '...what have they done to us?'

* * *

There is nobody listening.

There is nobody to help.

Just Sasuke. Just Konan.

Just Red.

And white.

The colour of total blankness. The colour of no idea or inspiration or memory of comfort. The colour of nothing.

Of surrender.

* * *

**Day 3**

Naruto leaves the hospital at ten o clock in the morning. He is dressed in his regular clothes, having rid himself of his uniform as quickly and quietly as possible. War is over, and occupation by allied forces is imminent. He does not want to be caught in the threads of Orochimaru's reign (rumours of his body being found still remain unconfirmed).

Besides.

He has work to do. And he is sure the people he will be working for - his clients, his customers - do _not_ want to see a soldier in uniform.

Everything has been organised by their small, hard working group. Hinata, steady and rock-eyed. Neji, scratching silently from his cell to ensure their hands of help stretch across all affected countries. Shikamaru, still concussed by the death of his father but almost viciously desperate to help and put his mind to use.

The nurses who kept quiet at their planning. The anonymous, frightened medicine and equipment donors finally rearing their heads and knowing they have sins to atone for. The helping, loving hearts of Konoha are starting to feel a little more bold, a little more rebellious, and a little less captivated by the slogans of the Fourth.

The grip of a master of words is already, just a little, starting to loosen.

On the steps of the hospital, Naruto glances up at the sky. It is a freezing cold December day, and snow has fallen overnight. The sky is still grey, wrapped within the scarf of snow-stuffed clouds, but to him, the world seems a little bit brighter.

He is being met by Shikamaru. They are going to a local coffee shop to finalise a few last-minute details.

Naruto knows where he will be going later today.

002. The site of the failed raid. The offshoot camp of 001, where he will send three larger groups to scour the countryside surrounding.

Naruto is desperate. And he hasn't seen the vulture for a few days.

He is terrified that time is running out.

He sees Shikamaru loitering toward him. Naruto knows that Shikamaru's body moves so slowly and easily because his mind is working at a chaotic speed. He feels a small surge of adrenaline, like a gasp of light in the darkness, sparkling through his bones.

This is their last chance.

That fence. The one always lingering in the distance of his mind.

Time to tear it down.

* * *

The store house is silent. Konan sits very still.

Watches her patient clinging to the edges of life.

The world is a vacuous, lonely bubble of mute.

She holds his hand. He is unable to hold hers in return.

Konan waits.

* * *

Naruto gives a briefing to the remaining members of FOX before they leave. It is inspirational and provoking and honest. None of them really need it. They are all determined to at least save one Red each.

Medical supplies and assault weapons are distributed. They do not know who they will meet and it is always better to be prepared.

Naruto takes a deep breath. Hinata is at his side, weighed down with a shoulder bag stuffed with medical supplies. Neji is with them too, and Shikamaru, both armed with maps of the area around 002. They hope to make the journey there within three or four hours of hard walking. Then they can split and cover as much ground as possible. The other eighty-six will be moving from their respective countries, cities, villages, homes

They have no idea what they will find, out in the snow-drenched fields and rubbled forests.

Their determination is their courage. Their bravery is their compassion.

They leave. A group of forty-four individuals, twenty-two groups, with a common goal constructed of common themes:

- Do whatever is necessary to save as many Reds as you can.

- Tear down as many fences as you can.

- Make your mark in history against the faces of those who did not care.

* * *

The afternoon is long. Konan dozes where she is sitting, unable to keep her exhausted eyes open.

The vulture takes his opportunity to creep a little closer.

She wakes. Growls. Defends.

Cries silently at the daunting, looming prospect of being very, very alone.

Grips his hand a little tighter.

Begs him not to leave her.

Hopes that he can hear.

* * *

At five o clock, Naruto, Shikamaru, Hinata and Neji arrive at the spot where they had once passed water canisters though a tunnel. They are faced with an acrid, still scene, where smoke does not rise but simply hangs, heavy and low, above a desolated camp.

No signs of active life remain. Signs that life was once there, barely. But nothing now.

Naruto swallows as he peers through the fence, crooked and useless.

_'This can't be it.'_

'Let's split into two groups,' Shikamaru suggests softly, 'and comb the area. They can't have flattened _everything_.'

Naruto isn't sure he agrees. But he moves all the same.

* * *

Evening crawls toward the store house. It is miserable; a dry, slick air has replaced the snowy wind.

Konan is still waiting. She is trapped. She cannot bear to stay and she cannot fathom leaving.

The hand she holds is starting to feel very cold. The chest she watches with eagle eyes is putting up less of a fight.

Konan closes her eyes. Tight.

And braces herself.

* * *

It is two hours later that Neji, sharp and straight backed, hears a sort of stifled sound, just off the track of the road. Hinata, his partner, has just finished treating a Red with quite a nasty wound to her arm who they discovered wandering away from the camp. After performing a quick check, Hinata deemed that the girl, seventeen or eighteen at most, seemed quite healthy apart from the open sore, and once treated, gave her a map and some food and directed her back to town with warm words of encouragement. The girl had smiled. Wept. Thanked her with fat, loving tears.

'Arm yourself, Hinata.' Neji's voice snaps through the darkening atmosphere officially. 'There is something close by.'

Hinata quickly reaches for the gun Naruto gave to her. It feels utterly ridiculous in her hands.

Neji nods for her to follow him, and they step into the thick snow lining the road.

* * *

Naruto, on the other hand, has found two sets of footprints.

He and Shikamaru have made their way through a charred, stubbed forest and came across a body, frozen and snowy in the road on the other side. Ice has blanketed it like a gentle coffin. They quickly assess there is no return for this poor fellow and move on; there are two pairs of footprints leading away down a meandering lane, laced over with freshly fallen snow but just about decipherable in the dropping light.

And they find themselves facing a supply house.

* * *

Konan starts. Twitches. Turns herself.

She can hear something. Voices. Approaching.

* * *

'Come on, Shikamaru,' Naruto says quietly as his eyes travel over an almost beautifully delicate patch of brown, dry blood resting on the snow. 'Let's see if there's someone in there.'

* * *

The voices are enough for Konan, muffled and undecipherable. Trembling fingers reach for her stolen gun and she scrambles to her feet.

'Hold on, Sasuke,' she whispers. 'They're coming for us. I'll look after you.'

She doesn't expect a response.

* * *

Naruto places his hand to the cold door of the supply house. And pushes.

* * *

Konan watches the door to their haven creak open. Steadies her fingers and holds her breath.

Watches the chilly twilight pour into the shack.

She is quick. She stands firm, arms outstretched, body tensed. Ready to protect the shell at her feet.

_'Stay back!_' She sounds crazed. She does not care. _**'Stay away from us! Get back!'**_

* * *

Naruto halts at the sound of the voice. Hears Shikamaru reaching for a weapon.

Gazes, completely dumbfounded, at two _Fang _guards, both covered in scratches and bruises, looking very much worse for wear. One is pointing a silver gun at him and trying to aim through a swollen black eye.

Two _Fang_ guards.

Not what he was expecting.

* * *

Konan glares beadily down the shaft of her gun at the figure in the doorway. She squints though the new light assaulting her eyes.

Sees a figure she is not expecting.

'W-Wait!'

* * *

Hinata raises her hands. Sees the unstable, shivering woman. And the body crumpled, lifeless, at her feet.

And her heart seems to stop, then and there.

Just stop.

* * *

'Y-you were there!' The woman is talking, and to Konan the whole world is quickly muffled and distorted. 'You were th-there that night when we tried t-to help! We're w-with FOX!'

Konan lowers her weapon. Collapses to her knees. Turns to her companion as the face of the white-eyed woman slots neatly into her memories.

That night.

That raid.

Yahiko. Nagato. Sasuke.

They're all rumbling into one.

'Oy,' she murmurs, reaching for his hand. She brushes it. It is colder than the flooding dusk. 'They're here for you, Sasuke... your friends are here...'

Nothing. Distantly Konan registers the sound of slapping footsteps as they approach.

'Didn't you hear me?' she nudges his body. 'They've come for you, Sasuke. Your friends are here to see you... That lovely woman with the stutter...'

Strong, beautifully warm hands wrap around her shoulders and lift her to her feet gruffly. A thick woolen cloak is slung about her and she is pulled face first into the chest of a sweet smelling stranger.

'It's okay.' The stranger's voice growls through the wool. 'Just stay here a second. I will not let you go.'

It is only then that Konan realises she is sobbing.

* * *

Hinata slings her bag to the floor.

Reaches for the body before her.

Can only see Naruto's face behind her eyes.

Freezing. He is freezing but his face still looks flushed. Dead black hair frames his face like a bird's wing. She leans in. Fingers search for a pulse.

There. Weak. Pathetic. But there.

Hinata places her nose next to his. Begs for the feel of breath, any breath, any air, any sign of any_thing _other than it all dribbling away like rotten sand on the edge of the world.

Her pleas are unheard.

Dying. Uchiha Sasuke is on the floor in front of her. Dying.

'Come on.' Her lips move unbidden, her words form unasked. 'You can hear me, Sasuke, I know it.'

She pinches his nose. Wonders at the hollow, starved face. Meets her lips to his with not a moment's hesitation. Tastes the strange sweetness of fever on his teeth.

Breathes and wills life into him as hard as she can.

'Naruto will be so angry if you die, Sasuke...' Another breath. His chest lifts with each one. But they are hers, not his.

'He will never f-forgive you!'

Between breaths she reaches for her pack. Saline. A needle.

Tap, tap. Find a vein. Not easy. He's so thin, they've all collapsed.

_'Come on, S-Sasuke...'_

She breathes into him. Again.

Again

Again

Again.

The tears from Hinata's desperate, loving eyes roll down her face and into his open mouth. Pinch. Breathe. Check pulse. Still there. Pinch. Breathe.

_'And if h-he is still alive...'_

Pinch.

Breathe.

Check pulse.

Still there.

_'... we __**will **__find him.'_

Pinch.

Breathe.

Pray.

* * *

Sasuke is running.

The park is bright and beautiful today. He has already waved at his parents and dashed past them twice on his regular route. He is barefoot; the texture of the soft, healthy grass under his feet is bliss.

He drags each lungful of air in and out confidently, body strong and youthful and lean as he passes a few familiar faces. Naruto is grinning at him, shouting something about a sandwich. Kakashi and Anko are painting the side of a bench together, bits of paint in their hair, but both stop to call out a friendly, typical hello as he breezes by.

Yahiko and Nagato sit on the edge of the lake in the middle of the park he runs around. They don't look up at him, but he can sense their quiet, conscious awareness. He passes Hinata and Shikamaru, sat together on a thin blanket, eating a batch of freshly baked bread and honey-cured meats. It smells so delicious.

He keeps running. The wind is fresh in his hair. He is clean and a shine of true, working sweat graces his brow as he stretches himself, pushing his sprint to a higher level and reveling in the warmth of the afternoon air.

Itachi, tall and complete, waits for him on a sharp bend. He is wearing his favourite trilby and his silky ponytail pokes from underneath. As Sasuke approaches he slows down to a trot.

Itachi chuckles at him, and raises his hat. 'Don't stop here, Sasuke. There's more running to be done. I don't know where you picked up such lazy habits, but it certainly wasn't from me.'

Sasuke rolls his eyes with a confident smirk. Picks up his pace again. Hears his brother mutter something about being foolish.

He runs and runs, and the scenery changes. The park fizzles away, beautiful and gentle like a sunset fading into an incandescent ocean.

And he suddenly finds himself facing a split in the road. Two paths, angling in completely opposite directions to each other. There is a large pole in front of him. Wooden arrows point left and right but their text is blurry and illegible.

Atop the pole sits a vulture. It has red eyes, and is watching him with vague interest.

Sasuke looks up at the bird. To him, it looks tired. A little overworked.

It speaks to him.

'You took your time.'

Sasuke frowns. Cocky. 'Don't know what you mean. I'm just out for a run.'

The vulture chuckles. Sasuke squints his bright eyes at it.

'You have a choice. Make it and go.'

Sasuke looks down at himself. Registers a hard, pumping shock to his chest.

That healthy, vigorous body is depleted. He is a clanking, falling-apart skeleton, barely covering his own nakedness in filthy rags. That air, so sweet and fresh only moments before, tastes like tears on his lips.

The vulture is gone. Sasuke is faced only with the crossroads.

At the end of the path to the left: the park. He knows it well. He can see that the sun is still shining. If he looks really hard, he can see his brother waving at him with his hat in hand.

At the end of the road to the right: a milky, unclear vision of smudged white. It is hard to make out. The path leading to it looks dark, and winding, and there are no plants lining the edges of the road; just hot, dry mud flaking away in the heat.

A flash of something. A silhouette, perhaps. A very faint, familiar smell. A strong feeling under the hairs on his corpse arms.

A basement. That's what he can see at the end of the path on the right. A dark, lonely basement. And a lonely figure standing in it.

Sasuke swallows.

He doesn't know what he is supposed to do. He is so tired of making decisions and all he really wants to do is lie down.

'Why are you giving me a choice?' he asks aloud, to nobody in particular. The vulture is gone. But its voice remains.

'I don't know why. I _had _decided to take you. Suppose I must be getting soft in my old age.'

A diary drops at Sasuke's feet. It is scorched and old and looks very, very heavy.

Sasuke closes his eyes. He is tired. He can taste salt in his mouth. Distantly, an angel is weeping his name, words frantic and beseeching. Itachi is watching him carefully from the left. The shadow vision on the right is awfully far away.

Sasuke is tired.

_So tired. _

He bends down.

Picks up the diary.

Takes a breath.

And steps forward.


	25. Epilogue: Start Over

**Red**

**Epilogue**

**Start Over**

* * *

The days became green.

Four months would never be enough to forget. For the wound to heal. For the scar to fade from angry red to ancient white.

But the rain had finally stopped falling. It wasn't something Sakura had ever really watched out for, and it surprised her when she noticed.

She'd been carrying a heap of invoices into the back-office when the display window of the shop floor had caught her gaze. There was sunshine, april and the colour of chicks in spring, sprouting through the glass. And it was not wet.

It was so unusual that Sakura put her invoices down on their spike and stepped outside, through the back door, into the small patio area where Yamato often enjoyed a mid-day smoke. He usually had to shelter underneath the lip of the back door to avoid his cigarette being smothered. She found him instead leaning against the brick wall, puffing gently away like a slowed-down steam engine and enjoying the light on his stubbled skin.

'When...'

Sakura felt stupid for asking. She could hear the distant chatter of two soldiers in the adjacent yard. She sought Yamato's face and his expression smiled at her.

'When did it stop raining?'

* * *

After their death, Sakura did not speak for three full weeks. She ate like an old machine, chewing and swallowing as a process but unintuitive and slow. The hospital understood that she wouldn't be turning in for a while.

The funeral was on a day when the rain still fell. They'd been outside. The clouds had cried innocent, diamond tears.

Sakura had not.

Her silence was easily sizeable enough to absorb every drop. A sponge of feelings unspeakable.

Nobody spoke to her on that dim, dismal day, where crystals dropped, riches and riches, onto a couple of simple, unguilded coffins. For Sakura was like a spider's web; strong, near-invisible, but only held together by the thinnest of threads and able to unravel, sticky and collapsing, at any point, should the wind blow too hard.

* * *

Yamato had been stumbling home from another drinking session on the other side of town one Tuesday evening when he'd seen her. The different her. The moving, storming her.

It was as though he was looking at someone who he knew had died. As though they'd been resurrected. As though pink had become fire.

She was stood outside the Hatake family bookshop, mucky old paint cans stacked on the ground beside her and paintbrushes gathered like babes in her elbow crooks. She wore an old, too-large pair of overalls and bits of dust were stuck to her skin.

Yamato frowned as he approached her.

The bookshop had taken a little damage the night the bombs fell. The interior was left untouched but the door and lovingly hand-carved sign over the entance been blasted and needed a lot of work.

Yamato could hear Sakura huffing as she dropped the paint brushes and stood, stretching her back and eyeing the front door to the shop. He did not need to announce his arrival.

'The way I see it,' she said without a single wobble, not bothering to turn and face the mildly stewing man behind her, 'we can either carry on moping, me in that damned apartment they've given us and you in that stinking pub, or we can get up and do something. And I for one am not prepared to give up on Father's shop just because he's not around to look after it anymore.'

Yamato inched an edge closer. Inspection told him that she'd already repaired the frame of the entrance to the shop and sanded it down.

He sighed.

'What do you need me to do?'

A paintbrush was thrust his way, handle pointed at his belly.

'Paint.'

Yamato wisely took the brush.

Wisely got to work.

Wisely did not comment on the tears he could see staining her face in the window of shop.

* * *

A few days later, the shop was up and running.

And a few days after that, Naruto came to visit her.

'Wow,' he'd whispered upon entering the rather dark book store. 'You're really running the place now, eh?'

'Of course I am,' she'd barked from beneath the till counter where she was picking up pieces of loose paper, clad in a simple grey tunic. 'There's nobody else to keep this place moving. What did you expect?'

Naruto hadn't spoken what he'd expected. He couldn't quite bring himself to say that he'd honestly thought he'd find her weeping, struggling, drowning - and that was no mark on her character, no, not at all - it was more that she had been orphaned, and lost so many people so close to her, and really hadn't had any time to come close to dealing with it. The look in her eyes was hard as she swept across shelves with rigorous efficiency. The way she moved, on the surface graceful and in control, was stiff and mechanical.

And Naruto realised with a definite physical sadness that this Sakura, the one drowning a storm beneath a still ocean surface, had lost too much.

'Need a hand with anything?' he asked as she stood, shaking dust out of her hair. She paused a moment.

Looked at him.

How small Naruto had felt, then, dwarfed by her silent loneliness and rage and despair.

How guilty.

'Just thought I'd, ya know, offer...' he'd stuttered with difficulty.

She'd huffed at him.

'Fine. The store room needs mopping. And the back office. Can you manage?'

Of course he'd manage.

He'd managed every single day since that conversation, dropping by at some time between one and three in the afternoon and placing himself at Sakura's disposal. Mopping, cleaning, alphabetising stock, joking with Yamato.

Naruto would manage absolutely _anything_ if it meant he could support her. The girl he'd planned the future with long ago, both gazing into the river with faces too young, surely, to ever be aged.

* * *

Living in occupied Leaf was not easy. Business was crawling. Residents didn't know where they stood any more. Konoha was cufflinked with instant reparations and blamed for all of the problems in the world by everyone who did not live there (and a few who did). Guilt and confusion riddled the already wounded populace. But Sakura had learned from her Mother to be gutsy and from her Father to be clever, and she had always been a very quick student of circumstance. For her, living in post-war Konoha wasn't easy, but it wasn't difficult, either.

Once the Fourth's worm-rotten body had finally been discovered and taken by Allied forces, the occupation itself happened quickly. Within a single week of foreign, efficious-looking soldiers taking control, all _Fang_ squads had been disbanded, guards discharged of their previous duties, and those who were still able to work were redeployed to assist on clean-up operations and community support tasks.

Life didn't change too much for most local citizens as a slow and limping rebuild began. There were new faces on the streets and new languages chattering around the buildings, and the uniforms guarding the corners changed, but the new soon became the norm and after the disbanding of _Fang_ a routine of ordinariness settled back in.

Any work camps that hadn't been destroyed in the Fourth's final attempt to erase any evidence were condemned, the prisoners released, the gates pulled down by the Allies. The extent of what had happened - what the whole world had _let_ happen - was soon hot news around the globe, and spread far and wide as though on the wings of vultures. Many surrounding countries opened their borders to any Reds (or any other 'social undesirables') who could not bring themselves to return to Konoha, but the take up was surprisingly small. Most of these people, leading officials soon realised, simply wanted to return to how it was before, and had been uprooted quite enough.

There was a problem in that. Of course.

You can't go back to a house that is no longer there.

You can't go back to a job that no longer exists.

You can't go back to a family that is dead and buried in a mass grave.

* * *

Sakura was one of the first.

In the whole village.

And she did it in style.

A huge, dirty bedsheet, pulled from the rubble of a house and a life dashed under the wheels of war. It smelled of a person she'd taught herself to forget and wait for simultaneously.

She painted it. In thick, bright letters.

Long ago, her Father had blessed her with some very wise and very loving words:

_'Whatever you do, don't let the world around you know of your decision. Keep your thoughts to yourself. Keep your beliefs quiet. Don't change a thing. Do you understand?'_

Sakura had looked at herself, really hard, as she'd pinned the bedsheet into the corners of the shop window. Pressed the letters, jagged and heartfelt, against the glass so there could be no mistake.

And after looking at herself, and then standing outside and examining at her handiwork through the windowpane, Sakura felt proud of herself for defying the words of her dead, beloved Father.

**'REDS WELCOME HERE.'**

She didn't mind disobeying his words. Because he'd disobeyed them himself. He might not have written a sign on a bedsheet, but he'd made it clear to those who mattered (and those who needed it) that Reds were always welcome in his house. He'd risked and received the lash for giving bread to a dying human, a societal criminal, a victimised old man. He'd hidden a fugitive in his basement at the risk of his own life.

Kakashi had always been a man of riddles. Of breaking rules, quietly and lovingly.

Sakura was a little different.

If she was going to break the rules, she did it in a loud way. She'd lost too much of herself to quietness and hidden secrets and lonely submission.

Kakashi defied the world in a deep, dank basement. With closed doors and windows. With whispered words of monsterised mutiny.

Sakura defied it with a growling yell. With the bedsheet that harbored a rat.

With eyes that dared anyone to cross her.

After all. She was her Mother's child, too.

* * *

The book store was small but Sakura wanted to support as many customers as she could, and so she installed a small round table and two chairs in a particularly sunny spot where the day crept through the blanketed window. On days when Yamato could handle the regular customers she offered lessons in local lingo to the militia who were stationed in the town. She did not speak their language but she could teach them some of the basics of her own. With pictures cut out of her own profit she painted words into the mouths of the soldiers and they paid her although she never asked for it. Many hours of Sakura's week were spent teaching words over the smell of old books and fresh coffee. Twice a week in the evenings she ran an open house for Reds affected by the war and everything that came with it, who wanted to come meet, drink coffee (standing, packed in like matches in a box) and share their stories.

She supposed, secretly, that she hoped. Of course she did.

But being the girl with the words, either who gave them or heard them, suited her while she struggled into setting up a new life with Yamato and Naruto and the odd familiar face from her past. The scent of her Father's hard work calmed her soul somehow and she spent most of her time in the book store.

The _ching_ of the till register.

The _thwop_ of a book being dropped, pages spread, onto the floor.

The mewling pride of those who met in her evenings to share their little bite of history.

All of these were the stitches that Sakura quickly and effectively put in place.

To stop the stuffing from spilling out of her thinly sewn seams.

* * *

Hatake Kakashi was like a patchwork quilt.

Never would have guessed his daughter would be the same.

All those colours and materials and textures and hastily applied stitches.

Just waiting for a body to wrap itself around the fabric. For warmth.

* * *

And so the green days blossomed. Summer was on the verge of showing its face from behind the manufactured clouds of history.

The sky was particularly bright the day Naruto walked into the book store with a grin a little wider than usual and a surprise tucked under his jacket.

* * *

Naruto enters with a chime as the door opens and closes. Sakura is busy in the back and otherwise the book store is empty.

He can hear her shuffling around. Probably lifting a box of books too heavy for her. She doesn't care for asking for help these days. Naruto knows that.

Not sure if she has heard him, he calls out to her. 'Oy! Sakura! I'm here for my shift. What do you want me to do?'

A moment more shuffling and then a hand appears at the open entrance to the stock room.

'The history shelves.' The hand, dainty and starting to wear, points to a corner of the shop floor. 'They need dusting down. I didn't realise how bad they'd gotten. Do you mind?'

'Not at all!' His voice is buoyant and glowing. 'I suppose not too many people pick up the history books these days.'

'Yes,' comes her voice, and the hand is replaced by a head, with a busy, slightly harrassed expression and tired eyes. 'And if they did pick them up, I doubt they'd buy them, they're so covered in old dust and cobwebs. You can't really see it at the front, but at the back, where you can't really tell, it's a real mess. Underneath the underneath, and all.'

Naruto chuckles to himself as he grabs a dusting cloth from beneath the till counter. He knows his way around the shop very well now.

'Do you have any students today?' he questions as his eyes catch across the tiny learning area near the window. She doesn't reply straight away, but Naruto is used to that, too.

He begins work on the first of a couple of very dusty shelves. Sunlight is yawning into the shop from the four corners of the window, where the bedsheet still hangs.

Sakura comes out of the back. She looks like she needs dusting down too.

'No students today, no. I'm sort of glad - gives me chance to focus on the shop. I need to put in an order with the stockist but first I want to do a little review of what's been moving and what hasn't. No point in ordering stock that won't sell.'

'You could take a night off, Sakura.'

She throws him a withering glance. 'No. I've got too much to do.'

Naruto understands.

There is a warm, pleasant silence for a while as Naruto gets on with his dusting. He removes each book carefully, blowing the dust off the spine and wiping it over with the dust cloth, restoring a bit of health with each movement. He then stacks them in small piles, clearing a space on each shelf so he can clean right to the back. The smell of old dust is delicious, almost religious. It reminds him of times lost in the river.

Sakura disappears into the store room again and Naruto happily gets on, working methodically through the manucripts and tomes, cleaning carefully and preciously. This shop is everything to Sakura. He takes joy in helping her where he can.

'Sakura,' he says quietly after a little while, 'do you remember us sitting by the river when we were kids?'

The usual pause hangs as Sakura finishes what she is doing in the back and then makes her way out to converse with him. Her expression is curious as she steps into the sunlight-cornered room.

'Yes.' Her hand rests lightly on her hip. 'Why?'

Naruto replaces some clean books onto a clean shelf. 'It was just... a nice time. Don't you think?'

Sakura takes a seat at the coffee table reserved for lessons. Her form is gracefully silhouetted in the light from behind the bedsheet.

She thinks about her answer before passing it to him gently.

'It was a beautiful time. It really was. And you know...'

She pauses. Scoffs at herself ever-so-slightly.

'Sometimes, I wish it could... all go back. To where it was.'

She doesn't look up at him, but simply watches the pooled patches of light splayed across the wood of the coffee table.

'It's unfair of me to think like that. I know. But...'

A sigh.

'I just think it, sometimes. Wish we could have another go at things... without ...'

Naruto smiles a companion's smile. Puts his dust cloth down and walks over to the table. Squints in the light.

'It's not a crime to want to start over. 'Specially when you've been through... and come out of the other side... Then again...'

He sits on the second of the two chairs, all that she can currently afford.

'... Coming out of the other side... That's good for a person, right? What doesn't kill you makes you stronger and...'

She snorts. Her pink bangs, too long, in need of a trim, rustle around her cheek bones.

'The other side... actually, I've found the other side to be quite a lonely place so far.'

Naruto's smile fades. Not hurt. Understanding.

She misreads it.

'Oh, no - Naruto, you've been amazing, you really have. You're such a help! But... there are holes that nobody can fill in.'

He nods. He is not stupid. Maybe he was, once. Not this day.

'I get it. You don't have to say.'

He can read what is in her eyes. And what is in her eyes is what is in her heart.

A shadow passes by the window. Naruto tenses for a moment, as though in remembrance of some urgent, forgotten fact.

'Uhh, Sakura, listen...' His voice is instantly over-apologetic, and she frowns at him, already on the defensive. 'I know you said you've got no students this afternoon, but I've actually got someone who wants to see you.'

She hurls a deep, Anko-scowl smack in his face.

'Naruto!' She stands up, body hackling all of a sudden. 'You should check with me first, you idiot!'

Raging, she tears away from him to the store-room entrance.

'I would have thought you'd know to ask me if I was free before just doling out my services. I'll do it, but you seriously need to consult me in future. There goes that stock review I had planned...'

Her sharp, irritated words continue to fill the shop as she disappears into the store room, burning over the _ding_ of the door as it opens and closes again, slowly, a shuffling, awkward few seconds in between.

Naruto glances at the two visitors to the shop.

'Sorry,' he says with a shrug. 'I'll go get her.'

He approaches the store room, the sun warm on his back through the window.

'Sakura,' he calls, unable to keep a huge grin from his face. 'There's someone here to see you.'

'They can _wait_!' snaps her voice from the comparative gloom of the back.

'Not this time,' Naruto's smile is audible, golden in each breath. 'He has waited long enough. And so have you.'

Her irritated sigh exits the store room before her, and then she appears, eyes on her hands as she runs them over each other in an attempt to dispel any dust.

'Sorry to have kept you waiting, but I just-'

Sasuke.

He is standing in the book store.

He is leaning on a supportive Hinata.

He is skinny and angular.

He looks exhausted.

He is gazing at her with the apologetic wonder of someone who has seen the stars for the first time in his life.

_Sasuke is standing in the book store._

_**And he is alive. **_

'No,' His mouth opens. His voice is a shadow. Sakura is completely still. 'I'm the one who has kept _you _waiting, Sakura.'

She watches. Waits for her thoughts to catch up with her heart, which is already blossoming and beating and beaming.

And bursting.

She runs to him. His support disappears.

They crash into each other, cling, and sink to their knees.

She cannot stop saying his name. And he cannot stop saying her name.

And their names tumble together into the air, rolling and melting and crying.

'Please,' she breathes herself into his trembling form, instantly memorising every detail between her grasping fingertips. 'Please, Sasuke... never leave.'

His arms, so bony and still in such tender, painful recovery, possess her, pull her into him, trap her scent and her tears and her exhalations.

'I won't, Sakura. I won't. I will never let you go. I never did. I never could.'

They sob into each other, blindly, sharing each of their burdens with each embrace, each glance, each hitching, aching breath.

The war is over.

The rain has stopped.

* * *

Two ribbons of history tie themselves together with a wretched, loving embrace. They seal off a story, painstakingly forged in the warring embers of a blacksmith's flame, and gently poured into a diary, a novel, a _fiction_, a _truth_.

That's it.

The book closes.

* * *

On the back of the book is a blurb.

Short. A glimpse. A tiny, insignificant epilogue.

You are wearing an eye patch. Seeing into a future wrought and cast with the scars of humanity. Seeing a place, and a time, like your own.

There are two people, a little older now, not much changed. You watch them as they step off a crawling train together. The woman, rosy hair chopped into a short crop, pauses to help her companion limp down from the carriage to the platform.

A little, light rain. Nothing to get worried about. Don't start panicking now. It's over, remember.

They are at an old site. About eight years old. It is a labyrinth of corpse foundations and overgrown weeds. Nothing ever blossoms here. The site stretches for at least a mile, and the train line runs right through it, along restored copper rail-works given life and repair after the war.

Each year you watch them come here. With thousands of others. All stepping, tentatively, onto the platform and facing the ageing mirror of their past. This is not the only epilogue. There are millions of _words_.

You watch this particular couple with interest. They are close to your heart. He doesn't move with the youthful ease you'd associate with his frame but you know his story, so that is to be expected. She is patient, silent, as they walk slowly along a route scored into his mind.

They pause, momentarily, as they are joined by another. She is fitter, a bit healthier. Dark hair and survivor's eyes. The three of them move on together.

It is strange. Like you are watching a model graveyard from above, crawling with people as lifeless as the absent tombstones. Their movement is strangely sacred and you can only maintain a religious respect for their travels.

Eventually, they reach a point and the pink-haired companion is asked to stop. Quiet words and an awkwardness you'd have thought they'd have grown through. You've seen this journey before, though, so you know he always asks her to stop here. There are some parts of his life that he is unable to share with her. He kept her out all those years. He cannot let her in now. She will wait for him. She is patient.

The two dark-haired, red-eyed figures hobble on, and the female clutches hurriedly at the man's hand. He takes it, gladly, limping along at the best pace his damaged leg will allow.

They reach their destination after a few more minutes. It is a small clearing. You recognise it. There was once a towering fence hemming it in like caging fingers, and long ago a daring trio of foxes dug a hole underneath to try and steal some chickens.

The buildings that once forged a corner here are gone. Their roots remain, gun-metal and laden with yellowing leaves and strangled weeds. It smells, oddly, like the sea; moist, clinging sand wreathed in seaweed foam. In the centre of the space there are three simple sticks, unadorned, white wood. Their bases are plagued with choking vines from the past but the man nor the woman can bring themselves to remove them.

They simply stand there. Stare at the three white bones in the soil.

Ignore your shadow, feathers casting their silhouette on the wailing, gnashing teeth of the near past.

You have followed them all this time. It feels like your strange responsibility. They say death never leaves a person once they've seen it.

Time is just the same. Time melds to a soul and leaves its mark. Time heals. Time destroys.

Time waits.

Their clutched hands tighten and squeeze. You feel it.

After a voiceless hour, they turn and leave. The rain is falling a little harder now and their hair is sprinkled with it.

You follow them, letting your dark shadow reach out and stroke theirs, conjoined in the late afternoon air.

You are a part of them now.

You are a part of all of us.

And I am a part of you.

* * *

_**#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-**_

_**#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-**_

_**#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-#-**_

_**Dedicated to my sister in everything but blood. Jane to my Lizzy. **_

_Thank you, everybody, for reading._

_Over and out. For the final time._

_Sherby._


End file.
